


Asylum

by naturallyunlucky



Series: haven archive [2]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-30
Updated: 2007-01-30
Packaged: 2018-02-26 23:32:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 91,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2670485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naturallyunlucky/pseuds/naturallyunlucky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Archive post - Asylum, January 2007.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> This account was created to serve as an archive for fic written 5-10 years ago. Given how old these stories are and how little to do they have with my more recent writing, I've chosen to remove them from my active profile, but I didn't want to delete them entirely-- I want to have them on the internet under my control, I want them to be accessible to people who may still want to revisit them for nostalgic purposes, and I kind of like having them around as a reminder.
> 
> This story is a Brucefic initially published on fanfiction.net on January 30, 2007, when I was seventeen, and the flaws therein are numerous and include but are not limited to plot holes, a lack of a certain amount of social awareness, frequently shallow and sometimes childish characterization, and plenty of unrealistic details. Anyone new who wants to read on is welcome to do so, but trust me, Shakespeare it ain't. Likewise, if you feel compelled to leave feedback, feel free, but be aware that where I am now as a writer is nowhere near the place I was when I wrote this, so it likely will end up being irrelevant.
> 
> I'm going to dump the fic in its entirety into two 'chapters' in accordance with the character requirement, since uploading each of the 25 chapters one at a time seems like a lot of effort for a simple archival entry. Within those two big posts, though, the chapters will be divided and [hopefully] the formatting will have stuck. Proceed at your own risk!

**Chapter One**

"I want to go home…"

Jenn moaned this plaintive statement to her computer monitor, which continued to hum and cheerfully display statistics from the fifty or so steel mills that Redgrove, Inc. owned and ran.

She knew that she was whining, but figured that she could indulge, since no one else was around. It had, after all, been a long morning. She hadn't been able to sleep the night before, tossing and turning until Bruce got home at around 2:00, when she finally got to sleep.

She'd had to wake up early and head in for a 6:00 conference call that lasted hours and that she only got through by consuming a full pot of coffee. After _that,_ she found out about several spanking new lawsuits, the clincher being a man in Florida who was outraged at being denied worker's comp when it was discovered that he was under the influence of marijuana when he'd suffered a fall from a dock that had resulted in his broken ankle.

Jenn had never tried marijuana, but if this day followed its established pattern of getting worse by the hour, she figured she might start.

Of course, she could leave at any time she wanted—it came with being the CEO of Redgrove, Inc. (a daunting thought on a _good_ day), but she felt obligated to stay and see the day through.

Glancing at the clock she saw that it was 12:47. Well, if she couldn't leave, she could at least take a break. Scooting out of her chair and leaving the office, she told her secretary, "Donna, I'm going for lunch. I'll see you in a few."

Jenn was a 'stairs' person. Sure, on days when she was tired or with someone else she'd take the elevator, but even in the skyscraper, she usually took the stairs for as far up or down as she was able.

It was on the stairs, between the 41st and 40th floors, that her cell phone rang. She answered with the usual, "Jennifer Wayne."

"You've really gotten used to using my last name," came the reply. She smiled.

"My name too, now," she said, privately laughing as she thought of the 'Jones' conversation Lauren had had a few months previously. "It confuses the crap out of people who call looking for a Redgrove. You're up early."

"Have to be," he said, sounding grumpy. "I have a late lunch with the mayor."

"I remember. So, how much time do you have?"

"Why? So I can listen to you aimlessly ramble?"

"Bruce Wayne, you love my aimless ramblings and you know it. Don't pretend otherwise."

He chuckled. "I've got about fifteen minutes."

"Good. You can keep me distracted from the fact that I have about thirty-eight flights of stairs to go. Guess what I overheard?"

"Eavesdropping, Jenn? I'm disappointed in you." She snorted.

"Yeah, right. Like you've ever shied away from gathering useful information. Anyway, I overheard this argument between two women, one middle-aged and one young, and one man. The middle-aged woman apparently thought that today's youth use the phrase 'I love you' too much."

"Really."

"Mm-hmm. She was of the opinion that saying it so often decreases the value of the words. Thankfully, I was saved the embarrassment of barging in on the argument to make _my_ stance known, because the young woman said that you never know when you're going to die, and so it's best to say it as often as possible."

"They both have a point," Bruce said thoughtfully.

"Granted," Jenn said. "I believe it _is_ easy to desensitize the words… but what about soldiers and their wives? Cops?"

"And you and me," Bruce said, voicing her thoughts. She paused for a moment.

"Yeah," she said at length. "That _was_ kind of what was on my mind." Her legs suddenly tired, she decided to get on the elevator at the thirtieth floor, cutting into the hall and nodding at a receptionist. She was copping out early today; usually she'd make it halfway down before calling it quits because of time. Maybe it was the thought of Bruce lying broken and battered in an alley somewhere that took it out of her.

Pausing outside the elevator so she wouldn't loose reception, she heard an intake of breath on his end and could almost hear him checking the clock. "I've got to go," he said, sounding slightly apologetic and partially morose. She could tell that the latter mood was because he hadn't gotten enough sleep the night before, and indulged in a vaguely sympathetic smile before nodding as if he could see.

"Right. I'll talk to you later?"

"Mm. I love you," he said, a definite note of teasing in his voice. She laughed aloud.

"Love you, too," she said, teasing in return, though, as with him, there was distinct sincerity in her tone.

"Bye."

"G'bye," she answered, and waited for him to disconnect before stepping into the elevator. There were two men and one woman inside, and she gave them a brief smile, retreating to the corner and coding in the calendar on her cell phone, looking over the next few days and moaning internally as she remembered the party she would be obligated to attend in a few days.

She knew none of the elevator's other occupants were staring, because today, she didn't have to dress in a suit or dress or anything—she looked like any of the secretaries or messenger girls in thin jeans and a black sweater, the sleeves of which were too long for her. She looked just like she felt—normal.

* * *

The cave was never truly silent. Even if the constant, quiet flow of water throughout its depths was subtracted, there would be the flutter of the hundreds of bats, moving from one perch to the other restlessly. Still, one got used to it. It was a good environment for someone who needed background noise to work in. Right now, though, said background noise was permeated by the occasional "Tsk," and one "Hold still!"

When Bruce came back in need of medical attention, he was well aware what went on above him after he pressed the intercom button and let it be known that he was home. Jenn and Alfred had a competition, of sorts—neither wanted the other to have to get up and go downstairs. They'd argued lightly over it, Alfred saying that Jenn was upstairs and had further to go, Jenn responding that she was used to an irregular schedule and getting up all hours of the night wouldn't affect her much.

They'd failed to come to a conclusion; so instead, they waited till the actual incident before battling again. The first one to respond via intercom to Bruce's call for assistance won. For a while, they pretty much broke even, but as Jenn grew more adept at handling wounds and more accustomed to Bruce's schedule, she began to win more often.

Bruce stayed out of it, but privately he thought they were crazy, battling over who got to come down and deal with the blood and bruises that he wasn't able to reach. Tonight was one of the nights that Jenn had won out.

He didn't say much as she looked him over in the medical center they'd set up in the cave. She understood; he was still in Batman mode—his mind took a bit of adjustment to get away from crime fighting and back to stocks and cars, at least partially. The wounds for tonight were blessedly not so bad—just difficult for one person to deal with.

Right in the middle of his spine, the skin was broken, surrounded by the brownish-purple of an oncoming bruise. It was pretty messy, and she traced a finger very lightly over it, feeling for swelling as she asked, "How did _this_ happen?"

There was a pause, and then he snorted. "Some guy thought he was Rambo. Kicked me in the back. All his weight was behind it, so the impact was pretty bad despite the armor."

"Huh," she said, reaching for the alcohol and tilting some onto a wad of cotton, then pressing gently it against his back. "Does this sting?"

"Are you trying to be funny?" he asked. She laughed mercilessly, using the opposite side of the cotton to gently dry it and then bandaging it.

"I'll take that as a yes. That bruise is going to give you trouble over the next few days whenever you sit down on a chair with a back."

"Yeah, thanks for reminding me."

She ignored the moody retort—he was sometimes a little grumpy when returning home, bruised and sore. Instead, she went on to the next wound—a similar tear on the back of his thigh, though this one was bleeding considerably more. She shook her head as she cleaned the blood away. "I'm never going to understand how you get hurt in some of these places. Even after you tell me, it seems weird."

"The price of leading a double life," he mused. "You come home injured in strange places with no explanation of how said injuries got there. Maybe I should have taken Alfred's advice; learned to play polo."

She sniggered quietly from her position, holding the alcohol bottle with one hand and swabbing the cut with the other. "No. Trust me, darling, you do _not_ belong on a horse."

He raised his eyebrows. "What, you don't think I could do it?"

"Well," she said, straightening up. "Let's just say that you may be graceful on your feet, but I doubt that'd carry over to riding." She leaned forward and gave him a brief kiss before turning away to put up the bottle.

"Gee, thanks," he said sarcastically. She smiled at him, turning back and stooping again to apply the bandage.

"No problem," she said, getting up and standing in front of him. "Come on, give me that wrist," she said, reaching for a swath of Ace.

Instead of obeying, he lifted his left hand and looked at the wrist. "It's not that bad," he said contemplatively. Jenn raised her eyebrows and took his hand, tugging at it.

"It's already swelling a little. It's definitely sprained," she said. "Don't be stubborn; you need to wear it tonight and tomorrow, and then maybe tomorrow night you can get rid of it."

"And what happens when they notice it at work?" he asked her, an eyebrow lifted, nonetheless handing it over. She started to wind the bandage around it, and shrugged at his question.

"Tell them you were helping me move a bookshelf and it slipped," she said.

"Should it bother me that lies come so easily to you?" he asked lightly. She chuckled.

"When it comes to you doing what you do, they have to," she said, finishing up. "There. All nice and bandaged for tomorrow's fight."

"Good," he said. He caught her before she could turn away, pulling her back and kissing her thoroughly. She matched his enthusiasm.

Good things come to an end, though, and she pulled back, swatting him gently. "There's such a thing as sleep, you know. It heals, which you need, and you're missing out on it."

"I know."

"You're a walking temptation, do you know that?"

"Thank you."

"Go get a shower; you stink."

* * *

John Ridley was a wealthy man, somewhere near the top of the ladder of Wayne Enterprises and instilled with a generous amount of common sense. Perhaps that was part of the reason why no one could determine why he had married Amelia Waters, one of the most stubborn women alive. Many referred to her as a general annoyance. A few who actually got to know her enjoyed her spirit.

John was a sensible man. That was why he allowed Amelia full reign when it came to the Valentine's Day charity event she had informed him casually that she was hosting a scant month ahead of time. And just like that, his entire house was turned upside-down. He prayed for February 14th's passing in order to restore things to normal.

Such a gathering couldn't be thrown for those of the mere middle-class, of course. All the socialites, glitterati, famous—generally wealthy people—must attend. That was part of why Amelia was so adamant about persuading Bruce Wayne and his new consort—Jenn, was her name?—to attend.

Amelia was among the skeptical of those who laid eyes on the couple. She stated that without having known each other for at least a year before jumping into things, the newly married pair wouldn't last. Still, as long as Jenn _was_ Mrs. Wayne, and less experienced with avoiding invitations to undesired assemblies, Amelia targeted her.

* * *

"Tell me again— _why_ are we going to this thing again?" Bruce called from the massive bathroom. Jenn glanced up from the bed, one leg in the air, foot pointing at the ceiling as she pulled on a pair of pantyhose.

"Weren't you the one who advised me to _choose_ my battles?" she wanted to know.

"Yes…" Bruce said warily.

"Well, this seemed less hassle than Mr. Roster's New Year's thing last month—because neither of us will be expected to get drunk—and much more interesting than Mrs. Ashwood's soirée for the upper-crust execs of the something-something company—that branch off of Enterprises—so I told them we'd come," she finished, starting on the other leg and praying that she wouldn't run the pantyhose, since she _always_ ruined at least one pair on the occasions that required it. She hated pantyhose, no matter how tanned it made her paler-than-she'd-like legs look… her legs were going to be under her skirt on this occasion, anyway—except for what was shown by the slightly-higher-than-knee-length slit—so it didn't even have that small plus. She'd never understood pantyhose etiquette.

Bruce made a sound of acknowledgement from the bathroom as she finished, straightening her black skirt, and got to her feet, crossing the room to search through the closet.

"Hey, Bruce?" she called after a minute. His silhouette appeared in the doorway, tuxedo halfway on, a questioning expression on his face. She held up the left shoe from two pairs. "Which one?"

He gave her a look—the one that would have been deadpan but for his right eyebrow slightly arched. The _tell me you don't expect me to answer that_ look. She tried very hard not to smile.

"Right. Just thought I'd ask!" she defended herself. He disappeared again and she decided on the higher-heeled of the pair, which, while difficult to negotiate, were pretty and strappy and made her feet look smaller than they were (she'd always resented Lauren's size five foot when Jenn herself had to wear a nine) and more importantly elevated her height—Bruce liked to take advantage of the fact that he was an entire seven inches taller than she was, so she fought back whenever possible.

Bruce appeared in the doorway again, this time fully dressed and working on his bow tie. She figured she might as well flaunt her new height and started towards him, only to trip on the rug's edge and fall right into him. His reflexes, excellent as always, saw that he caught her.

When she looked up at him, his green eyes were glittering, a smirk tugging relentlessly at the edge of his mouth. "I'd say that you did that on purpose, but for the fact that it was much too embarrassing for that."

"Brute," she muttered, swatting him on his arm and taking a step back as he continued to smirk and resumed work on the tie. "That's it, these are coming off. I'm not going to trip over nothing in front of hundreds of people." She stooped to unstrap the heels and then straightened again, acutely aware of the four inches she'd just shed. "Hold on," she said.

"What?" he asked, fingers pausing in their motions. She tilted her head to the left and to the right and then reached out to untie the bow tie. He cocked a brow as she grinned.

"You should leave it like that. Makes you look sexy. Kind of like George Clooney."

"Is that a _good_ thing?" Bruce wanted to know, the brow arching higher.

"Well, can you imagine Clooney as Batman?" Bruce paused.

"Good point," he said with a shrug. He offered his arm and she took it. "Let's go."

They left the room.

A few seconds later, Jenn dashed back in, rummaged in the closet for a moment, found another pair of shoes, and slipped them on, muttering all the while about how she was too used to wandering around barefooted, while the sound of a baritone chuckle resonated just outside the door.

* * *

They'd taken the limousine. Jenn personally would have preferred one of Bruce's shiny sports cars, but, as Bruce said when he wanted his way, he had a reputation to uphold. Jenn used the same excuse when she wanted him to do something crazy with her. It usually worked.

_I/You have a reputation to uphold._

It was fast becoming a teasing routine.

Jenn settled back in the cushy seat. Funny thing about stretch limos was that no one seemed to realize how much the seats made your butt hurt after about thirty minutes. When she'd commented on this to Bruce a week or so earlier, he'd hidden his face behind a newspaper. Judging by the slight shaking of his hands, she'd decided that he'd been laughing at her.

Speaking of Bruce… she trailed her eyes on him, sitting across from her, brow furrowed in concentration as he scrutinized the screen. This would most likely be one of his work nights. He would act out the role expected of him and be physically there, but his mind would be miles away, out with the bands of criminals awaiting justice.

She leaned back, straightening her skirt. She rather liked the outfit she'd chosen for tonight, aside from the pantyhose. She'd quickly learned that when one was liked by the media, one could get away with much more—for example, dressing in a pretty skirt/top combo instead of an elegant, slutty, much-too-expensive gown—and have it dismissed as one's youth speaking for her.

In this case, the black skirt slit to just above the knee, a favorite of hers, coupled with the unusual top—wine red, would have been strapless but for the thick strap slashing diagonally to go over her shoulder and connect to the back—suited her. She also liked the sheer black wrap that looped around her elbows—liked the way it looked, that was. It wasn't much in the way of warmth. She had to rely on Bruce for that, though he couldn't understand why she didn't just bring a jacket. The words 'nothing that I have goes with this' didn't have the same effect on him as they did on others—he just told her to go out and buy a coat to go with every outfit, she certainly had the money. She gave him up as a lost cause. He never refused to wrap an arm around her, anyway.

Her cell phone rang, identifying itself by the distinctive notes of the Phantom of the Opera theme. She quickly located it, sending an apologetic look to Bruce, who glanced over his laptop screen with a lifted eyebrow, and answered with "Jenn's Morgue—you kill 'em, we chill 'em."

"Very amusing, Jenn." The dry voice of Edward Baker reached her. "One of your best."

"Aw, isn't that sweet of you," Jenn said, crossing her legs and smirking. "So what's up, Scissorhands? Or dare I hope that you called me because you missed the melodious sound of my voice?" She paused and listened for a split second, and then shook her head disapprovingly. "Don't snort, Edward, it's not becoming."

"That'll be the day, Jenn. We have a problem."

" _Of_ course," she said, rolling her eyes. "Okay, fill me in."

Edward Baker, aged fifty-seven, was quite a character. He was even taller than Bruce and beanpole thin, with an ironic sense of humor that took some getting used to and a deep-rooted Virginia accent that set him apart from the average Gothamites. He had been in Alek Redgrove's employ, but in a much lower position than Jenn had believed he'd merited—she'd noticed that he had exceptional management talent and wondered why no one was taking advantage of it.

When she'd approached Alek about it during one of their 'training' sessions he'd turned snappish, confirming her suspicions that Edward was kept low in the status ladder because he wasn't willing to suck up to authority. When Alek had died and the Redgrove stock—which ensured that the family was kept in control of several large companies in which they owned at least 51%—had been passed to Jenn, she'd known exactly who to turn to.

Within weeks, Edward Baker was her representative and right-hand-man. What's more, after she overcame her initial intimidation of him (which she'd hidden, of course—it wouldn't do for the boss to be frightened of her employee) he quickly became a father figure to Jenn, offering welcome guidance whenever it was sought. Being a married man himself, with more than thirty years wedded to the same woman under his belt, she found his advice very beneficial most of the time—though they got into frequent disagreements over Bruce. Edward was of the quiet opinion that Jenn had no business marrying a man she'd only known for a number of months, pointing out that dozens of celebrities had had longer engagement periods than she had and still broke up within five years. Jenn had given up trying to convince him. She had the resigned knowledge that he didn't approve of Bruce's public façade, had never become acquainted with the _real_ Bruce, and was really just worried about her.

She knew now, as she discussed the latest problem (disgruntled _Fantastically You_ shareholders) with him, that he already had a solution thought up and was just running it by her. She was thankful for the day she'd met Edward Baker, standing bored in the lobby while waiting for her father to finish up some business. By the time they reached the giant Ridley house, the problem was talked out and basically wrapped up.

Bruce closed his laptop as she hung up. "Productive conversation?"

" _Más o meno._ How's it going on your end?" He shrugged and then, moving with that effortless grace that Jenn had always envied, got out of the car, offering a hand to help her out. She managed not to trip over herself doing so, though didn't manage half as much elegance as Bruce had.

"A _Valentine's party_?" he whispered in her ear as they traipsed towards the doors amidst a few other couples.

"Oh, come on," she said with a grin. "It can't be _that_ —"

They entered the house and were enveloped by pink.

"-bad," Jenn ended weakly.

**Chapter Two**

The two stood in the doorway, unaware of the people flowing around them as both pairs of eyes searched the entire large foyer and then met each other. "Holy crap," Jenn said. "There are cupids… _everywhere_."

"'Not that bad,' huh?" Bruce said out of the corner of his mouth. Jenn gave him a dirty look, and then they were accosted by Amelia Ridley, an auburn-haired, gray-eyed woman in her early thirties, quite pregnant but dripping with sequins and bursting with energy despite the fact.

"Jenn, dear," she said, taking Jenn's hands and gifting the younger woman with a pair of air kisses. "So lovely to see you again."

"It's wonderful to see you, too," said Jenn, putting on a smile to replace the scowl meant for Bruce.

"And Bruce! I hardly ever get to see you any more," Amelia said, as Bruce—who had let the charming fop grin slide over his face—took her hand and brushed a kiss over the back. "Why don't you attend as many functions anymore?" In her eyes was the glint of steel that many a lesser man had faced up against and come out on the short end of the stick.

"I'm sure you understand that I've been busy," said Bruce, never letting the charm slide as he reached an arm out and caught Jenn, who lifted an amused eyebrow at him. "Lots of stuff that comes with being a newlywed."

"Yes…" said Amelia, looking from one to another. "Like staying faithful—to make sure dinner's on the table at the right time, for example," she said, after letting the pause following 'faithful' linger long enough to let them know that she wasn't speaking of dinner at all. She lifted one eyebrow at Jenn, who had a passive expression on her face.

"Well, I'm here now, that's what matters," Bruce said calmly, his smile staying fixed. Amelia nodded, her fresh smile re-emerging as if her admonition of before had never been spoken.

"Of course. Well, make yourselves at home, newlyweds… you two should feel right at ease. I _must_ go speak with Armand about the cream puffs, I was sure that…" and she moved off, murmuring to herself, a certain purpose to her gait.

Jenn stared after her for a moment, and then a grin started. "I like her. She acts like a much older woman."

"Yes, well… wait till you come up against her in an argument," grumbled Bruce halfheartedly. Jenn laughed.

"You're just saying that 'cause she openly dissed you."

"Sure I am."

"She's very energetic for a pregnant woman. Reminds me of Hannah Malton."

"Do you think there's any chance that there's a room a bit less… pink?"

"I doubt it," said Jenn, shrewdly observing the room. She then glanced at Bruce. "So what do you think? Stick together or split up to give the press something to gossip about?"

As he opened his mouth to respond, the decision was made for them as they were simultaneously accosted by one man and two women—the man being John Ridley, apparently desiring to speak to Bruce about business, and the two women the grasping Mrs. Landlass, wanting to talk to Jenn, and a stranger that the woman wanted to introduce.

Jenn met Bruce's eyes over their heads. 'Later', she mouthed, and he nodded. Then they were swept their separate ways.

* * *

"Wow… you're _really_ married to Bruce Wayne, then?"

The question came from the young newcomer Jenn had just been introduced to by Mrs. Landlass—Meredith Fille. She was a rather bold young woman, but not unlikable, with platinum blonde hair, a flawless complexion except for a small mark just in front of her ear, and blue eyes that looked bigger than they were due to her impeccable makeup. She was an immensely popular model in the world of Gotham since her arrival out of the blue four months ago, thus her appearance at the party. Jenn nodded in response to the question.

"I'd read it in tabloids and stuff, but I didn't believe them—I never do. They're always finding relationships that aren't there."

"I agree with _that_ ," said Jenn wholeheartedly with a smile. There was a brief silence in which Mrs. Landlass spotted another person to cling onto and sailed away with an excuse, and then Jenn asked, "So, you're new to Gotham?"

"Not really," Meredith said. "I've lived here all my life. New to the socialite scene—you can probably tell."

"Are you here with anyone?"

"No," she said, seemingly not disturbed. "There's no one I want to be with, really." She then flushed slightly and then caught her bottom lip between her teeth. "Well, there might be _one_ person," she admitted.

Jenn lifted an eyebrow, not particularly interested, as she probably wouldn't know the person Meredith named, nor would she be concerned with looking them up. Meredith leaned closer, taking Jenn into her confidence.

"Can you keep a secret?"

"Of course," Jenn said. Secret-keeping was a hard-earned merit of hers—as a teenager, of course, she'd gone through the whole "I promise I won't tell!" and then turning and saying "I'll tell you this, but you have to promise you won't tell her I told you!" phase. Eventually, after it backfiring on her countless times, she learned her lesson.

Meredith giggled. "I can't believe I'm telling you this—you're going to think I'm a silly schoolgirl." Jenn smirked slightly.

"Probably so."

"Well, it's…" She looked around, and then leaned in to whisper in Jenn's ear.

Jenn came away, deadpan. "You're kidding."

Meredith shook her head, grinning. "Of course not! He's actually the reason I came to Gotham. Oh, but don't tell anyone, because you know how the gossip hounds are here."

"Well… good luck with getting him."

"Oh, I know you think it's impossible," said Meredith, frosty once more, tossing her blonde hair. "But I'm telling you, I'll find a way. By the end of this year, I'll have gotten him."

"Right," Jenn said, straining to see if she could spot her husband's head above the crowd. "I think I see Bruce, actually, so I'd better get going. It was nice meeting you, Meredith."

"Likewise. Bye, Jenn!" chirped Meredith, as Jenn wandered through the crowd.

Before she could reach Bruce, though, she heard Amelia announce that it was dinnertime and would everyone please move to the dining room, where their spots were set for them?

Thankfully, she and Bruce were together, though she had to wait first for conversations to start up so she wouldn't be speaking in near-silence, and second for him to finish speaking to an acquaintance of his on his right.

During the time that Bruce was talking, she managed to inform herself that spilling a secret in these circumstances was fully warranted. After his conversation was closed, he turned to her, obviously sensing her edginess, and raised his eyebrows. "What is it?"

"There's a crazy person here tonight." He paused, and then his eyebrows arched higher.

"You just noticed?"

"Huh?"

"Well, everyone here's insane, more or less." She cracked a smile at that, giving a barely-perceptible nod of agreement.

"Yeah, well, this one needs to go to the loony bin."

"Which one?"

"See the blonde down there next to Mrs. Landlass?"

"The young one?"

"Yes."

"I see her." His voice was wary. She smirked.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to ask you if you think she's pretty," she said. "She's the one."

"What's wrong with her? She looks sane enough."

"You're not going to believe me."

"Try me." She glanced around to make sure they weren't being listened in on (not as rare an occurrence as it might seem—next to nosy reporters, there were nosy social peers eager to hear things that might provide for juicy gossip), and then leaned in to whisper in his ear.

"She thinks she and Batman are soul mates." He leaned back, his expression mirroring hers when she'd first heard.

"You're joking."

"I kid you not." A slow smile broke over his face. She shook her head. "Bruce, it's not funny," she said, resting her eyes on her salad as she realized the fact that they weren't eating might attract attention. She saw his shoulders shaking out of the corner of her eye. "It's not funny!" she repeated.

"I know—I know. Just give me a minute." As requested, she fell silent, and after a moment he leaned in to speak into her ear, apparently completely collected, to the onlooker just a besotted new husband taking time for a sweet nothing. "What do you think? Is she dangerous?"

Maybe before she knew him, she'd have laughed at that—but now she knew that danger came in all shapes and sizes, wrapped in all types of skin. She shook her head. "I don't know. She seems more foolish than anything else but—I don't know for sure."

"Right. Don't worry about it. I'll run a background check when we get home." He spoke in her ear again, and this time his lips brushed the edge, causing her to shiver. He leaned back, a satisfied smirk on his face, and she glared at him.

"You did that on purpose," she accused in an undertone. He shrugged, smirked, and leaned back.

The rest of the night was generally uneventful. The event that would probably be talked about the most was when one of the older gentlemen, who didn't care about his reputation, got drunk (a feat showing some talent, considering that the party was dry) and ended up in the punch bowl.

Jenn had to duck into numerous corridors to avoid Meredith Fille the rest of the night, stumbling upon more trysts than she cared to think about. The party seemed to drag on forever, but finally Bruce nodded at her and with relief she followed him into the frigid night air.

"Was it necessary to stay that long?" she wanted to know. The corner of his mouth twitched.

"Maybe not, but I wanted to observe your evasion tactics. If I'm lucky, I could learn something."

"Cute, Bruce," she said, pretending to be annoyed while he laughed. "I'm sorry, but I don't take delight in insanity like you do."

"Oh, really," he said, opening the door for her to get into the limousine.

"Yes, really," she said facetiously as she slid in.

"How do you explain Lauren Malton, then?"

"Bruce Wayne, that was a cheap shot and you know it."

"How so?"

"Lauren's a… special case."

"Oh, _special._ "

"Yes, special," she said. "If sent to an asylum, she'd be admitted immediately, while these people could bribe their way out of it."

"Ah. So the amount of wealth one possesses determines the level of insanity?"

"Well, think about it. If you're rich, you're considered 'eccentric.' If you're poor, you're called loony," she said with a grin. He just shook his head mildly at her and opened the laptop again.

Jenn sighed and looked out the window at the lights passing by, tilting her head so that she could look up at the skyscrapers. As corrupt as Gotham City was, it still had that metropolitan beauty at night that she had yet to see the equal of.

The Maltons. Odd that Bruce should bring Lauren up; she'd just been thinking about the family that day. For a while, Jenn had wondered what, exactly, she could do to express her gratitude for those years that they'd taken her in, saved her from lapsing into dark depression that would have surely taken hold. She'd been tempted to treat the sky as the limit now that she had the money, but material possessions meant little to the Maltons, as she well knew.

One evening, she'd spoken briefly with Hannah on the subject over the phone, and was surprised to hear the older woman's voice choke up. "Oh, luv," she'd said tearfully. "We don't want anything other than what you've already given us."

"What?" Jenn asked, slightly confused.

"Jenn-girl, over the last eight years, we've gained a daughter," Hannah had said, consequently making Jenn a bit weepy.

After that session, Jenn had seemingly let the subject drop, but in reality helped wherever she could. The Maltons were by no means destitute, but they _did_ have numerous children in a small house, so Jenn began arranging for extensions to be added. After the house had been enlarged considerably, Jenn sent her old cook, Lydia, to help out.

And then, of course, there was the bright red Corvette Lauren had mysteriously received for her birthday. Jenn had feigned innocence when confronted about that one.

Some might argue that it was a hazard for the general community, giving Lauren Malton such a car, but the truth was that Lauren had been inspired by Jenn's marriage and was now engaged to be married to Josh Jones. Since then, she'd mellowed slightly, and Jenn was willing to be that when Lauren had a child (and she was definitely planning on children) she'd mature even more—though she doubted that the buoyancy would ever leave her friend entirely.

For that, Jenn was relieved. In all the craziness of everyday life, everyone needed someone like Lauren to occasionally remind them that, in some circumstances, absurdity was hilarious and they needed to all seriously lighten up.

For now, though, she was content with leaning back and watching Bruce, knowing that he'd be in full working mode the rest of the night.

* * *

As sixteen-year-old Tina Priede's face collided with the brick wall, preceded by the rest of her body, she reflected for the fourth time in as many seconds that being so proud hadn't been a good thing.

If her half-brother hadn't been such a jerk she wouldn't even be _in_ this mess. But she'd had the audacity to disagree with him on the way home, starting a small argument, and her bipolar moron of a relative had chucked her out of the car. It was a small part her fault, too, she knew that—if she'd just sat there like stone and refused to move, or even apologized, it wouldn't have happened. Her pride, however, got the better out of her.

She wasn't even in an alley—wasn't dressed like a slut, wasn't carrying a purse. The street was scattered with those aimless zombies of people, the drug addicts and homeless men and women—not necessarily bad people, but apathetic. So when the three malicious-looking men had jumped her, she screamed for help but didn't expect it. The people would look with glazed eyes and pass by, staring at their shuffling feet, unwilling to get involved. They were too scared.

"Shut up," one of the guys almost literally spat into her ear. By this time hot tears had overtaken her vision, and she was beyond obeying orders as she screamed in terror, and one of the men jerked her away from the wall and slapped her across the face. Her scream subsided into convulsing sobs that racked her whole body as the three dragged her into a more secluded passageway.

"No! No," she begged, barely able to speak with the dread that froze her entire body. One of the men repeated his former move, shoving her into the wall again, this time scraping the other side of her face. She could hear him smelling her hair, and then the slimy sensation of his tongue wiping the blood away from her cheek made her want to throw up—but she hadn't had anything to eat for maybe six hours, so her body wouldn't even give her that grace that might save her.

"Come on, Ray," one of the other men said sulkily, while their partner stood snickering. "Don't hog it all."

This was it. If she didn't summon the strength to fight back, she was literally dead. Tina had always been reed-thin since she was a toddler, though her face looked mature enough—the fact that she was petite and not exactly strong made her a prime target for such assaults. She didn't have much of a chance, but still, she twisted around and kneed Ray in the groin.

He gasped and sank down, shocked by the assault. "Yeah, surprised you even had the balls to feel that," she spat, regaining some of her usual spunk at the success, but she quickly became aware that his two partners were still very much active. One of them hit her hard across the face, actually knocking her back and causing her to slide painfully across the frozen pavement, while the previously-giggling one howled with laughter—probably high on something.

The pusher-man meant business now. He flicked out a switchblade as he crouched over her, and when she kicked him in the chest, grunted and then cut her across the cheek, making her scream again in pain and terror. "Don't!" she sobbed.

High-guy suddenly screamed. His partner ignored him, moving the switchblade to Tina's throat, but she'd glanced towards the scream and her eyes lit with sudden hope. "Help me!" she shrieked. " _Please!_ "

The man with the switchblade turned, and his jaw was immediately shattered as the Batman took him out with one powerful hit. Tina slid back, pushing herself up on the heels of her hands, and her eyes flicked behind her shadowed savior. "Watch out!" she gasped.

The man she'd kicked was rising to his feet, drawing a gun. Batman whirled, snapping the guy across the face with his cape, blurring the man's vision, and before the thug could regain control, the hand that held the gun was mangled, the weapon falling uselessly to the ground. The man screamed in horror at the sight of his broken fingers and shattered wrist, but Batman cut him off quickly with a strong blow to the head.

Before the crime-fighter had a chance to take off again, Tina, weak with relief, stumbled towards him and hugged his armored middle with all her might. "Thank you; thank you, thank you," she sobbed, her tears coming even faster.

Batman seemed slightly taken-aback at this. He tensed, and then after she seemed to have no inclination to let him go, laid an armored hand between her shoulderblades. "It's okay, kid," he said, his voice rasping and gravelly. Her tears slowly subsided. "Who can you call?" he asked when he sensed she was almost ready to let go.

"My—my half-brother," she sniffed, pulling back. "I live with him and my dad." He nodded.

"Call him, then call the police," he said, making sure she understood. She nodded, and then unexpectedly attacked him with another hug.

"Thank you," she said, her voice muffled by the armor. He nodded and she stepped back again, backing slowly from the passageway, keeping her eyes on her redeemer. Tires screeching on the pavement made her turn around to see her half-brother's car, and she turned back to tell the Batman this, but her eyes only fell on the shadowed alley.

Shaking her head, she stumbled from the alley and over to Hal's car, yanking the door open with trembling hands. His sheepish look—no doubt he'd been scolded by their father—disappeared in favor of concern. "Tina, what happened?"

With the disappearance of danger, Tina began hyperventilating. She became aware that, not only were her face and hands bloody, but her shirt was torn. She had never thought that this would happen to her.

 _Control yourself!_ she said firmly to herself, and then, after her breathing was under control, turned to Hal. "Batman just saved my life," she said shakily. "Can I use your cell phone?"

**Chapter Three**

Bruce was back at the cave by three in the morning, his mind slowly gearing from the Batman state back to Bruce Wayne. They were two separate people, and in order to keep some sanity in his life he had to keep them as such. Bruce could occasionally be dark, his comments sometimes cutting, but on the whole he had a sense of humor; wasn't averse to smiling.

Batman, however, was ruthless, permanently menacing, with a cold deliberation about his every movement. Batman didn't smile. He could barely shift away from his work long enough to calm the victims of the numerous assaults, though sometimes they badly needed it. That was why the teenage girl from earlier had surprised him so much with her unrestrained warmth. He had barely known how to react.

He was still warm from the action of the night, but by the time he'd shucked the armor and logged the occurrences of the night, he had gotten very cold again. The cave was bearable, but definitely not warm, in the winter.

He avoided the creaking stair on his way up from the cave so he didn't wake Alfred—who had finally begun sleeping in the manor for a combination of three reasons: First, there was so much room that none of the three would be disturbed by the move; second, Bruce often required help at night and sometimes Jenn's medical skills were lacking, and third, the gatehouse was much colder than the manor in the winter. Once safely upstairs, Bruce crossed the second floor to reach his bedroom. He cracked open the door and saw that she was asleep, so slipped in, accustomed to moving in the dark, and got under the covers.

In the few months that Jenn had shared Bruce's bed, she'd quickly figured out his sleep schedule—he left at nine, returned from two to four in the morning, and slept till around ten or eleven. She usually was needed most at work in mornings, though, so she couldn't wait up for him every night. So, her subconscious had developed a sort of Bruce-alarm that was always waiting for the sinking of the mattress beside her and the slight chill let in by the blankets lifting, which would either wake her up or let her rest assured that he was home safe.

In this case, it blended the two. Half-awake, she rolled over and draped an arm across him, and when she realized how cold he was, snuggled closer, molding her body to his. "You're freezing," she barely murmured in his ear.

He shifted slightly, almost as if he wanted to pull away. "Sorry."

"It's okay," she said, and he relaxed a bit, turning into her embrace. They lay there for a few minutes, her body warming his, and then she spoke again quietly. "I'm glad you're back."

"Me, too," he whispered after a moment, winding an arm around her and rubbing her shoulder idly with his thumb. "It's been a long day."

Her quiet scoff sounded lightly throughout the room. "I bet. It's been tough for _me,_ and you have still _more_ to do." She stirred slightly, moving her head to look at him through the dark. "Any bruises?"

She didn't know if he knew how her heart rose to her mouth every time she asked that simple question, how scared she got at the thought of him being hurt. Maybe he did know, because he answered quickly enough to put her mind at ease rapidly. "Nothing, really, not tonight," he murmured quietly. "Luckily, I had more cowards than idiots tonight."

After a moment's pause, she turned and kissed his bared shoulder before pillowing down and shutting her eyes, feeling relieved and, while they were together, complete.

* * *

When Jenn had turned eighteen and graduated high school, her dream had been to major in art. She loved to draw and wasn't bad at it, specializing in realistic black-and-white sketches, mainly of living things. During her days at the Maltons, her room would be scattered with sheets of paper, upon which rested drawings of the Malton children and pets. There was one in particular—one she still had tucked away in a notebook somewhere—of Lauren asleep. The blonde looked almost angelic without the usual glint of mischief in her eyes, the area around her heavily shaded and only in clear detail from her shoulders up. The moment of rare repose was worth catching on paper, which was why Jenn kept it.

Of course, just as she'd begun sending applications to colleges, her father arrived for a day or two. He hadn't been pleased with her choice, and after a long, heated argument, he persuaded her to at least send some applications to colleges that specialized in business management. She'd consented, thinking that it would get him off her back.

She should have known that he had something up his sleeve. When she received responses, all the colleges she'd wanted to attend had turned down her application, and the ones her father wanted her to attend had accepted it. After another tempestuous fight over his duplicity, she was on her way to major in business.

She hadn't really considered that in a long time, mainly because her random drawing began to subside and had disappeared entirely by the end of her sophomore year. The only reason she was going over it now, in the middle of a meeting, was because she'd begun drawing idly on a the back of a report.

She supposed that she should thank her father—after all, without that degree, she would feel completely inept at handling the numerous business she was now in charge of. Still, she regretted not pursuing the degree she'd _really_ wanted.

Her pencil drew a pair of eyes that she was becoming aware belonged to Bruce as she detailed them from brow to cheekbone, catching from memory the creases that started at the edges of his eyes, the tiny raised birthmark on the right side of the bridge of his nose, the glint in the gaze when he was teasing her. After the sketch was complete she glanced up, tuning back in to the debate going on.

"—all I'm saying is that when we start letting people go, people start to lose their faith in the company. Needless to say, that isn't a good thing." That was Anne Winchester, a tough old woman who had been with the company for decades and who, despite her more liberal ideas, Alek had kept in his employ because of her knowledge of business, in and out.

"I understand, but it isn't tremendously drastic. I'm saying that with recent advances in technology, the company can stand to let go of a few employees." This came from Abe Lee, a middle-aged man who was smart and sharp when it came to the company's pennies, but seemed to be slightly lacking in moral fiber.

This debate had been going on for twenty minutes, and Jenn decided it was time to intervene. "Excuse me—Abe?" she asked, raising her pencil slightly. He raised his eyebrows and nodded, acknowledging her. "How many people were you thinking of downsizing?"

He shrugged and spread his hands. "One, two thousand?"

"You're serious about this?" He looked a bit taken aback at her deadpan stance and tried to shake it off with a brief chuckle.

"Well, yes—I am."

"Oh." She leaned back in her chair, considered, and then shook her head. "I really can't endorse an action such as that."

Abe glanced to his left and to his right, looking as if he were attempting to garner some support, before looking back at her. "I don't think you understand, Jenn—the company would be saving thousands of dollars a year with this movement—and that's what we're trying to do, look out for the company, right?"

"Yes, we are," Jenn said. "But a company is made up of people. They came here in good faith and we should strive to keep that trust. It certainly won't bankrupt us." She paused and leaned forward again, lacing her fingers together. "Abe, what do you mean by 'advances in technology'?"

"I mean we have new machinery," said Abe, sounding more confident now that he was on a subject he was sure of. "It can take over the jobs that people previously worked and accomplish them quicker and more efficiently."

"Well, people have to be hired to _work_ the machines, correct?"

"Yes, but people who have been trained to do so." He looked at her carefully. "What's your point?"

"My point is that yes, we can bring in these machines, but why bring in new people and let our old ones go? Most of them can be trained to work the machinery, the rest can be dispensed elsewhere—I happen to know that there are a few dozen plants clamoring for extra help." She spread her hands. "There's no need to fire so many of our proven older employees only to bring in new ones a week later. That's all I'm saying."

Anne bestowed an approving look on Jenn, and the younger woman gave her a small smile in return. Anne checked her watch and cleared her throat. "Now, could we hurry this up?" she asked. "I have to take my grandson to the doctor's office later today."

The looks she received in response to this statement were half disapproving, half concurring. Jenn was among the grateful latter.

* * *

Mildly pregnant Diane Carpenter gasped and gripped her five-year-old son's hand tightly, taking a step back as the two men appeared, seemingly materializing out of the mist. Her husband Tony's hand fell on her shoulder, reassuring her somewhat but in no way relaxing the sudden tension.

"Mommy, why'd we stop?" asked little Freddie sweetly. "Does Daddy know those men?" The first man heard the boy's words, and sneering, drew a gun, pointing it straight at Tony. "Uh-oh," said Freddie somberly, tightening his grip on his mother's hand.

The three hadn't been able to get a cab after attending a movie for Freddie's birthday, not ten miles from home. Calm, steady Tony had quelled the more high-strung Diane's fears and said that they'd walk to the nearest rail station, only a few blocks away. All had gone well for a block or two, and then these two mutts had straggled from the alley in front of them.

"Gimme your wallet," snapped Thug #1, his hand holding the gun aiming straight at Tony's heart. The latter held up his hands, trying to placate the mugger. The second thug drew another gun, aiming it at Diane.

"Uh-oh, uh-oh!" said Freddie, sounding slightly panicked. Thug #2 jerked the gun towards the boy.

"Shut him up," he warned, in a hiss that made Diane believe he was considerably more dangerous than his companion. Letting out a small cry, she bent and picked up her son, pressing her lips to his temple.

"It's okay, baby," she whispered, thinking quickly and making her voice calm for her child. "It's all right—Daddy just forgot to give these men something at the office. He'll give it to them now and then we'll go home."

"I want to go home _now_ ," whined Freddie, pressing his face against her neck, but he wasn't yelping anymore. She was grateful for that.

Tony reached for his pocket. Thug #1 gestured threateningly with the gun. "Go slow," he barked. "Me and my compadre don't take kindly to wise guys."

"All right," Tony said, his voice calming as his hand moved to his pocket. He came out with his wallet and only his wallet and slowly began handing it over. As if to make up for the time spent moving so slowly, things seemed to happen all at once.

Diane heard a harsh rustling, and barely had time to look up before a heavy black shadow came crashing down onto Thug #1. Freddie saw and started wailing in terror, and then a heavy crack sounded through the yelps of pain and the animalistic growls.

Diane saw Tony fall out of the corner of her eye and her mind went into overdrive as she worked out what had happened. The Batman had attacked the first thug, and, startled and enraged at the intrusion, Thug #2 had turned the gun on Tony and shot him almost simultaneously. She wanted nothing more than to scream and go insane with fear for her husband and rage at the muggers, but she couldn't do that. Freddie was still here.

She quickly kneeled, still holding her son, and looked at—as if she were fearful to touch—her husband. His eyes were shut, and there was a thin, dark fluid seeping through his shirt on the left side of his chest. She couldn't make a noise, but her eyes welled over and hot tears began dripping down onto the body as she realized there was nothing she could do.

Freddie had subsided into hiccups, not seeing his father as he stared over his mother's shoulder, watching with wide, red eyes as Batman took out the other thug with several bone-crunching sounds. He turned a chubby face to his mother to see if she'd seen, but she was crying. Why was she crying? He turned his head curiously and saw—"Oh, no!" he wailed.

Diane realized that her son was staring at his father's body and couldn't allow him to keep looking. She quickly got to her feet, still holding him perched on her hip. "No, baby," she said, her voice trembling. "Don't look."

"Mommy, no," whimpered Freddie. "Did the Batman do that to Daddy?"

Diane raised her eyes to the armored crime-fighter. He stood amongst the forms of the muggers, frozen, looking almost shocked. Amongst her grief, Diane felt a wave of unexpected pity hit her—she wasn't sure why. He hesitated, and then opened his mouth. "I—" he began. She just barely shook his head and he stopped. In that moment, he looked agonizingly human.

"No, baby," she said, staring at him for a second longer and then turning to look, strangely calm, at her son. "Batman did _not_ do that."

When she looked back, the man was gone.

* * *

Jenn's eyes snapped open as she became aware that something was very, _very_ wrong.

Her groggy mind wasn't exactly sure what that something was yet—she just knew that there was a problem at hand. After blinking for a second, she realized what the matter was—the bed beside her was empty, and sunlight glowed through the curtains.

 _Don't panic,_ she told herself sternly, and lay there trying to remember whether or not Bruce had returned the night before and just left early, before she'd awoken. She racked her mind and then decided that no, he hadn't.

Okay. She wasn't quite panicked yet, but she was definitely worried. She flung off the covers and strode barefooted into the bathroom. No sign. She spun on her heel and took off out of the room, down the hall, downstairs—she was clad in standard sleepwear, black camisole and short black shorts, so she wasn't too worried about embarrassing Alfred if she ran into him.

The floor was cold to the touch of her bare feet, but she didn't think about it, heading straight for the passageway that led to the Batcave. If something had happened to him, she'd know, because the suit wouldn't be there—neither would the Tumbler. If those items were in their places, then she could rest with the knowledge that he probably hadn't had time to sleep; that he'd had an early meeting or something.

It was cold in the cave. She felt goosebumps rise on her skin as she moved swiftly down the corridor, ignoring the usual flutter of bats settling themselves to go to sleep, and stood to look over the cave.

The Tumbler was there, and she relaxed minutely before realizing that someone was in the purposely-uncomfortable chair that faced the monitors. She stopped and stared, recognizing Bruce's medium-length brown hair from the head that rose above the back of the chair, but that still didn't explain _why_ he was still here.

He must have gotten caught up in work—his _other_ work—and didn't realize how much time had passed. It wasn't exactly as if you could see the sun in the cave, and there was surprisingly a lot of work to attend to as Batman. There was the constant monitoring of petty criminals as well as digging deeper into amateur crime lords and what it would take to stop them—for Gotham was definitely not lacking in that specific breed. After Carmine Falcone's indictment, many others eagerly stepped up to take what they could.

Still, her barefooted steps were hesitant, falling on cool rock, then sloshing through a freezing tributary of the waterway that flowed through the cave. Finally, she was standing next to him—he was out of the armor, in normal clothing—and a second after she stopped, he looked up. The shadows under his eyes were dim as, unlike her, he could go several nights without them becoming horribly obvious, but he only glanced at her for a moment before going back to his work.

Yes. There was something terribly wrong. If he'd just been caught working overtime, he would have looked at the computer clock, rubbed his eyes, made some statement to the effect of an apology—to her, to himself, who knew? But no—he made no move, eyes staring at a monitor, a darkness in them that she was barely familiar with.

"Bruce?" she asked quietly, almost unheard over the fluttering of bats. He didn't bother to look at her, and she almost didn't ask further, knowing that she wouldn't get anywhere—but as much for his sake as for her own, she continued. "What's wrong?"

She got a response, if barely. Just another quick glance. "Nothing. Just work. Go back to sleep."

She glanced towards the waterfall, through which rays of rare sunlight struggled and ultimately failed to pierce through, with a small, uncertain smile, more to reassure herself than anything else. "Bruce, it's seven in the morning."

No response. He was already absorbed in his work. She performed a visual check to make sure he wasn't seriously hurt and thus experiencing some mental problems, but the bruises and cuts were that were visual were just the standard minor injuries, and she didn't see blood seeping through his clothing or from his temple.

She was worried, but some internal voice told her that if she stayed, it could only end badly. So, with a sigh that was inaudible even to her, she turned and returned upstairs.

**Chapter Four**

It had been two days.

Two days and he'd barely spoken to her. By the first night she'd been able to ascertain that it wasn't _her_ that had caused his displeasure, as he didn't seem annoyed or angry with her, but he was distracted, moody. She'd gone to sleep thinking that maybe it would pass in the morning, and then had woken up alone again.

Nonstop work. Forty-eight hours of consciousness. That couldn't be good for anyone. Despite what he sometimes apparently thought, Bruce was mortal and couldn't go for too long without some respite.

So she'd stalked down to the cave and found him in the exact same spot he'd been the morning before, and despite how annoying it might be, found herself harassing him about it. It might bring a reaction where gentle prodding had failed.

"What's _wrong_ , Bruce?"

"Don't even pretend. You've never done this before."

"You _have_ to get some sleep or you're going to seriously screw up when it really matters."

And throughout it all he'd either stared at the monitor or looked, unseeing, at her. After a while, she'd given up.

By the second night, she'd done what she probably should have done in the first place. She'd gone to Alfred for advice. After all, the man had known Bruce all his life, knew him far better than Jenn did. If anyone would know what to do, he would.

She hadn't been wrong—Alfred had realized that there was a problem as well. He didn't so much _tell_ her as communicate this fact to her as they sat in the kitchen that evening, her legs curled beneath her as she warmed her hands with her teacup, him sitting properly and looking at her carefully over the steam.

"This isn't the first time this has happened, Madam," Alfred said, breaking the silence. She nodded.

"I figured." She looked up at him, brown eyes bleary—ever since that first morning, she hadn't been able to sleep nearly as well as usual. "What did you do? Last time, I mean."

"Well, Madam, after a few tries to pull whatever was bothering him out of him, I let him be. Eventually, he returns more or less to himself. Usually I don't find out what it was."

"I wouldn't mind not knowing," she said, looking into the pure, clear amber depths of the hot tea. "I wouldn't even mind if he stayed in this mood for a while." She glanced back up into the butler's comprehending blue eyes. "But to go so long without sleep… who knows what effects that'll have on his work? His reflexes will slow down, putting _him_ in danger, and he has cuts and bruises that could turn into a big problem if he doesn't give his immune system time to rest."

"I confess, I'm as worried as you are. Still, I advise you to give it some time. Master Bruce is stubborn in these manners, but not stupid—he'll realize when it's getting too dangerous for him." Jenn nodded in silent acquiescence.

That night, Bruce apparently reached that realization. Jenn hadn't awoken when he'd slipped in bed beside her, but after maybe an hour, opened her eyes as she became aware that there was a problem.

She rolled over, looking at Bruce's profile. He was moving restlessly, just little shifts every now and then, face holding an expression of worry even as he slept. It didn't take a genius to realize that he was having a nightmare—probably an effect of his sleep loss, REM rebound effect—the rapid eye movement that was associated with dreams making up for lost time. Jenn shook herself and told her inner psychology student that now was not the time, thank you.

"Bruce," she said aloud.

No response. She propped herself up on an elbow and blew a strand of hair out of her face, looking him over. She was far more experienced with comforting the victims of nightmares than she was with dragging one from its depths—all of the Malton children younger than Lauren had, at one point in time, come to her for solace from the nightly terrors.

Really, since Jenn was the equivalent of their sister, it made sense—the kids were usually worried about the consequences of waking their parents up, even for a nightmare, and Lauren… well, Jenn was one of the people that knew that, in a situation where humor wouldn't suffice, Lauren could be the most comforting human being on the planet. Still, their oldest sister was unpredictable, and so naturally they gravitated towards Jenn. She rarely went a week without one of the little buggers sneaking into hers and Lauren's room and standing there in pajamas just in front of her, waiting for her to open her eyes with the sense that not everything was right, and then share their fears in a whimpering voice that was too sad and appealing to turn down, even if she wanted to. So inevitably they ended up sleeping in her bed with her.

Since the only dreams Lauren had were the kinds in which statements like, "Czechoslovakia… no, I make a good spiced couch…" emerged from, Jenn didn't quite know how to pull someone _out_ of a nightmare. So she let instinct take over, trying to fit her hand around his shoulder and ultimately failing, giving up and just grabbing what she could.

"Bruce," she repeated, shaking gently. His head jerked but he didn't wake up, so she sighed and shook harder. "Bruce!"

His eyes opened, and for a second held a look almost frightening in its wildness, before consciousness fully took hold. "Wha—Jenn?"

"Yeah. You okay?"

"…yeah," he answered after a second. She nodded and he rolled onto his back.

She released a quiet sigh, letting her elbow slide out from under her so that her head was pillowed on her outstretched arm and relaxing slightly again. This was the most interaction they'd had, really, and she was tempted to ask him again what was wrong—and a second later, forsook the urge. Her mind, as unorganized as it was at this juncture, told her clearly that any form of pressure would be a bad idea. So she just watched him, aware that he was still awake as he stared at the ceiling.

She could see his eyes even in the dark, catching what small light was in the room and hoarding it, appearing inky black and almost equine in the shadows. She could hear his breathing, still uneven from the nightmare but leveling out with time. She was preparing to close her eyes and at least pretend to sleep when his hoarse voice unexpectedly sounded in the darkness.

"A man was killed."

It took her a second to figure out how to respond to that. There wasn't much one could say to such a statement, but she took it as well as she could. "How?" she asked quietly, unmoving.

"A mugging. I dropped down on the two criminals… in the confusion, one of them shot him." There was another long pause. "He had a wife and kid."

She didn't say anything. What was there to say? She didn't even have a clear idea of what was going through his mind—was he remembering the horrible occurrence of his parents' murder when he was a child, or was he blaming himself? Finally, she let go of her apprehensions with a sigh. "Gotham will always have murderers, whether they're bred out of desperation or evil," she said softly.

"And so I'll always be here." He was half-growling now, and she was aware that Batman was seeping into his personality. Slowly, she nodded, unsure if he could see the movement.

"Till you die." She said it with an odd detachment. "It's your blessing; your curse." She shifted, moving closer but still not touching him. "I know of people who would kill to lead the double-life you do—but they don't realize the terrible burden of it. Now that you've started, you'll never be able to stop."

He turned on his side, facing her. "I know." He'd long ago accepted the responsibility, probably even before _he_ knew it; probably the second Joe Chill had pulled the trigger.

She'd known this for a long time now, but one thing never ceased to amaze her… the fact that he'd taken the horror and anger Chill had created and molded them into something that he could use, something potent and dangerous. She wouldn't have believed it if she hadn't seen it for herself.

But then, that was Bruce. She was beginning to get used to his remarkable power.

* * *

Jenn emerged yawning into the kitchen, sleepy-eyed and rubbing the back of her head. Alfred, standing at the stove, and Bruce, sitting and glancing over the paper, both looked up at her.

"Good morning, Madam. Would you like some milk?" Alfred asked, proffering the pitcher. She glanced at it and made a face.

"Ugh, no, I hate milk."

"All the more reason for you to drink it," Alfred said sensibly, taking down a glass and filling it up despite her negation. "When you reach my age, believe you me, you will _want_ strong bones."

"Ugh," she repeated, sitting down next to Bruce. "Well, can't we at least get skim?"

"Why would you wish to do that?"

"Because it tastes more like water."

"I'll keep that in mind," Alfred said gravely as he set the glass down in front of her. She gave him a skeptical look, knowing that he would continue to buy whole milk as he always had, and didn't know whether to curse the butler's stubbornness or bless it.

She decided to just drink the milk, as he kept giving her pointed looks—she _had_ hoped she could just pour it down the drain when he wasn't looking, but Alfred had gained plenty of experience raising Bruce, as the younger man himself informed her casually as he looked over the newspaper.

"Yeah, it's your fault for trying all the tricks in the book and not leaving me any," she grumbled halfheartedly, making overdramatic faces for Alfred's benefit as she forced back the milk and not revealing how much it pleased her that Bruce was talking again, though he still appeared despondent. "Do you have to work today?" she asked a moment later.

"Umm—" He looked at his watch. "I should probably be there right now."

"Uh-huh." She looked at him skeptically. "And yet your butt is parked in the kitchen chair and you're making no move to leave it."

"Well, I have a reputation to uphold." He didn't even crack a smile upon the delivery, but it still made her laugh. He relaxed a little. "I should be going, though. Everyone's gone crazy these last couple of days." He bent over and brushed an almost careless kiss over Jenn's mouth, and she leaned into him for a split second before they broke away.

Bruce stood up as Alfred set a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of Jenn, and as soon as he had left, Jenn spoke to the butler. "Guess you've figured he's a little better."

"Indeed, Madam." Alfred didn't seem unduly curious. Jenn figured he'd seen a lot more than she had, so nothing would really surprise him.

"We talked a bit last night. I think that after a few more days he'll be more or less back to normal." She rested her forehead in her left palm, closing her eyes and speaking honestly to the butler. "I just wish I knew how to help."

"Madam, if you'll forgive me," Alfred said, scrubbing at the counters around the stove, "you're already helping more than you know." She lifted her head, looking at him almost confusedly.

"What, by sitting around and doing nothing?" she asked, her cynical attitude directed firmly towards herself. Alfred shook his head firmly.

"No. By being here for him. Master Bruce might not exactly be good at expressing it, since I believe I've been the only constant in his life since his childhood, but having you here means more to him than you know." She sighed, but before she could protest again, he looked down his nose firmly at her. "Now, I would advise you to eat. If I'm not mistaken, you have a rather long meeting today that will likely extend over lunchtime and if you don't have anything in you, you'll be half starved by the time you get out."

"Oh, crap, that was today?!" She sighed and then took his advice, eating determinedly, her faraway gaze revealing that her mind was miles away.

* * *

Jenn had a very bad headache, and as she left the meeting room in which she'd just suffered hours of torture, she pressed her fingertips against her temple, trying to push it out. While the pressure relieved her momentarily, the pain quickly came back with a vengeance, and she grimaced as she headed towards her office.

"Jenn!" She turned at the sound of the familiar voice to see Edward Baker, moving forward, folder in hand, only to stop a foot in front of her and look at her, brow creased as he noticed her apparent pain. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she said, swallowing in an attempt to wipe the frown from her face. "It's just a headache."

"Are you sure?" questioned Edward, a look of concern in his pale blue eyes as he used his free hand to paternally feel her forehead. "There's a nasty bug going around."

Jenn smiled despite herself, knowing that since his hand was warm to the touch there couldn't be any fever. "I'm sure. Too much tension in one day, that's all—as soon as I relax some, it should fade away."

"If you're certain," he said, still looking doubtful as she nodded and gestured for him to follow her into the office. He did so, and as she sat down behind her desk with a sigh, shut the doors behind him. "You know," he said, a slight smile pulling at his mouth as he took a seat, "there's some speculation about us among everyone else."

"You mean gossip?" asked Jenn, starting to grin slightly. "What are they saying, exactly?"

"Oh, I don't know. That we're having an affair; something to that extent," Edward said dismissively. Jenn laughed.

"Sounds like some people don't have enough to do. I mean, don't get me wrong, you're attractive enough, but you're old enough to be my father," she said teasingly. A corner of his mouth twitched upward in a smile as he put the folder he held on her desk.

"The Atlanta file you needed," he said, nodding at it.

"Mm, good," she said, flipping it open and glancing over it as she steadily ignored her headache. Her thumbing through the pages slowed, and after a minute staring at the same page, a minute in which Edward waited patiently, knowing something was up, she set it aside and leaned forward, elbows on her desk. "I've been thinking about something recently."

"I could tell."

"How many charities is this company currently involved in?"

"Is that a rhetorical question?"

"Yes," she answered. "The thing is, we donate some money every year to a few charities and spend money flaunting the fact, where the truth is we're not really _helping_ all that much." Edward watched as she stood, looking as if he didn't know whether to smile or sigh. She walked to the glass barrier that made up the east wall of her office, looking out over the city. "We need to do more."

"Jenn," Edward said slowly, "thousands of businessmen decide every year to save the city. Their resolve usually flattens within weeks of being confronted with the deep-rooted corruption that's so much a part of it."

She glanced back at him over her shoulder. "Trying to discourage me?" she questioned, though she was smiling slightly. He reminded her of Hannah trying to warn her away from a daunting decision—both were doing so out of love.

"No," he said, getting up from his own chair and joining her, towering over her by eight or nine inches and making her feel particularly short. "I'm just saying that if we _did_ attempt whatever it is you're thinking of doing, it'd be hard to even figure out where to start. The attempt to make a niche somewhere would lead to needs linked to that and it'd go on and on in a spider web of complexity."

"Hmm," she said thoughtfully, no amusement on her face as she looked at the streets. After some minutes had passed, she turned to him. "Edward, I can provide the money—we don't have to call on the company for that. I have more than I know what do with, anyway," she said with a wry smile on her face. "It _could_ be useful, though, to have the company in order to make small branches that would handle the charities. _I_ want to be involved, too; I'm just not sure how much time I'd have to organize everything if it was me alone."

Edward, seeing the faintly pleading look in her eye, nodded slowly. " _Incorporated_ would get the good rep without it costing them a dime; you'd get the help they could offer. I… can't imagine anyone raising an objection. Of course, it wouldn't matter if they did; you're in control of the whole company."

The smile on her face was like a brief flash of sunlight before it disappeared and she glanced back at the city. "I know where to start, at least."

"That so?" Edward asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"Mm-hmm. Shelters. There aren't _nearly_ enough of them, and many of the ones that _do_ exist have so many rules that people are turned off of them. We'd need _some_ rules, of course, just to maintain general order and make sure we don't have felons in the middle of them, but anything that will get those people off the streets and under a roof…"

Edward smiled. "I suppose we'd better start working on a proposal, then," he remarked. She grinned, and just then was a knock on the door.

"Come in," she called.

Bruce strode into the room, looking impeccable as usual. He and Edward, once they spotted each other, gave tight nods in greeting, and Jenn internally sighed. If only the two hadn't taken an instant dislike to one another… though she supposed on Bruce's end, it was mainly the sense that Edward regarded him as nothing but a brainless, undeserving fop. Even though Bruce offered that impression, something about Edward being close to Jenn work-wise rubbed him the wrong way. Not jealousy, obviously… just an instant antagonism.

Now, though, her smile grew brighter at the sight of him. "Hey—what are you doing here?"

"I came to bring you home," he said laconically, reaching her desk and pulling his right hand out of his pocket in order to fiddle with her nameplate.

"I'd better get going," Edward said, glancing from Jenn to her husband. She nodded, bidding him goodbye, and he gave another controlled nod to Bruce as he strode past. "Bruce."

"Edward," Bruce said, turning his head slightly in order to watch the older man out of the corner of his eye as he left. Edward considerately shut the doors behind him, and Bruce let the languid mask slip as Jenn sighed, moving back to her desk.

"Thank goodness you're here," she remarked. "I needed an excuse to escape this place."

"Glad to help," he said, and she was glad to see a slight smile pulling at his mouth, the first of its kind since his withdrawal. "I thought we could grab something to eat on the way home—unless you ate in the meeting?"

"No, actually—which is surprising, if you think about it," she remarked, a frown touching her forehead. "Those people will take any excuse they can to crack open a menu, to complain about how bad the food is."

He nodded, knowing the type, and then gave her a quick once-over. "Are you feeling all right?" he questioned, lifting his hand to touch the left side of her face. "You look… pale."

She smiled wryly. "Edward wanted to know the same thing, and just as I told him—it's only a headache."

He accepted the answer by nodding, letting his hand drop to grasp hers. "Come on, then. Maybe you're just hungry."

"Mm-hmm. That's probably it," she agreed, and they left together.

They ate their late lunch in a small bistro, the owners of which apparently were too busy to give special recognition to Bruce or Jenn Wayne, if they recognized them at all. Both found it slightly refreshing not to be gawked at, for once. They even ate outside—the snow had slackened off lately, it wasn't windy for once, and the day was full of rare sunshine, making it only slightly chilly even to Jenn's southern skin.

Jenn was also glad for this time just to sit down with Bruce. It gave her the chance to observe him and to decide that he was starting to put the death behind him. Him being the way he was, he doubtless still felt like it was his fault, but knew that losing sleep and retreating from life because of it was only going to poison his pursuit of justice. He hadn't recovered fully, of course; his smiles were rare and he barely teased her, but he was at least talking, which was more than she could say for the day before.

"Hey," he said quietly, when she was in the middle of staring at him, her head resting on the palm of her hand, and he was waiting for the check to come, "Paparazzi, across the street."

"Where?" she asked, straightening up with a roll of her eyes—she _had_ enjoyed that half-hour when no one had known who she was.

"Behind a tree, snapping photos like crazy," he remarked as the waiter returned his credit card.

She glanced over to see that he was right—a slim younger man was carving away at the camera like his life depended on it. She gave him a slight smirk and waved. Bruce, after taking care of the bill, noticed and shook his head. "Jenn, please—don't encourage him."

"Bruce, he's paparazzi," she said, shaking her head. "It'd only be encouragement if I flipped him off—they _love_ scandals. My cooperation is probably so disappointing that he's ready to leave now."

"Mm. He doesn't seem to be daunted," Bruce said, nodding in the man's direction.

"Hmm. Well, it's time to leave anyway," she said as he slipped a generous tip beneath his plate and stood, extending a hand to help her up.

"And," he said, as they walked to the car, a slightly less-noticeable-than-usual black BMW Z4, "we're going to stay home all afternoon and be lazy. We've been working too much lately."

She drew closer to him as he opened her door for him, making sure her words were for his ears only and, even so, disguising them. "Any chance you'll be able to avoid work tonight?"

His gaze hardened almost inexplicably, though not towards her. "Not tonight, I'm afraid," he said. "But," he added, catching her hand, "we have this afternoon."

The kiss he pressed onto the back of her hand was anything but chaste, and she nearly lost her footing when he turned her hand over and kissed the inside of her wrist. It seemed he'd missed her as much as she had him.

They couldn't get home fast enough.

* * *

Meredith Fille crossed her arms and critically stared at herself in the mirror. Although some people might observe her as dim-witted, the truth was she often had a very clear grasp of her surroundings and a decent head on her shoulders. Still, in several areas, she was completely out of touch with reality, and those areas often proved to be her downfall.

The clothes she wore now—a blue halter top over a black miniskirt and stiletto heels—were basically screaming _rape me!_ should she venture into the street. And she was standing in front of the mirror and seriously debating with herself.

Was it worth the risk? It hadn't taken her long to realize that not only was she entranced by the romantic idea of vigilantism, she was completely in love with Batman. So what if she ventured out on the streets like this, was attacked, and he _didn't_ show up?

"He will," she breathed to her reflection, shaking her head at her own doubt.

So now there was only one thing to do: go out and lure an unsuspecting attacker. It shouldn't be too difficult, not looking like she did, dressed the way she was. Giving one last ruby-lipped smile to her reflection, she grabbed her small purse and left.

Fifteen minutes later she was in the worst part of town (though that particular part was hard to pinpoint…) and fuming because she hadn't yet been assaulted. For heaven's sake, dozens of women were mugged and raped every night! Why couldn't anyone attack her when it mattered?

 _Just… calm down, Mere,_ she mentally scolded herself. _Think seduction._ She slowed her pace, switching from the quick pace of before into a much sexier tightrope walk, and strode confidently forward.

Other than some mildly amused glances from some of the scruffy people lining the street, she got no response. She became more and more infuriated with each step, but at last, as she rounded the corner, a shady-looking individual approached. "Finally," she sighed.

The guy's eyes shifted to the left, then to the right. Ascertaining that no one was interested in his business with her, he leaned in. "Wanna buy some dope?" he whispered.

Meredith stared at him in disbelief for a second, and then gave an almost inhuman cry, swinging out at him with her purse. He hissed a curse, stumbling back and turning to run as she continued to attack him.

When the strain of keeping up while wearing her heels grew to be too much, she stopped and looked around her. The doubtful people watching her before had all backed as far away as they could, surveying her warily, as if _she_ were the unpredictable one. Her hair was in disarray, which only served to make her angrier. "What's wrong with you?" she screamed at them. "You call yourselves criminals? You couldn't rape your way out of a paper bag!"

Some of them were nodding, agreeing with anything she said, just desperate to get her out of their neighborhood. When none of them appeared the take offense, she gave a loud, infuriated scream, and stalked away.

**Chapter Five**

Jenn nearly sprayed her coffee over the luridly colorful tabloid when she spotted it and its headline amidst the usual newspaper, but luckily got away with only a choke and a tiny bit of coffee down her windpipe, making her cough, but spill nothing.

She set down her mug and maneuvered the tabloid out from the newsprint, her eyes scanning it briefly as a look of great amusement came over her face. She held it up to Alfred, who glanced at it, looking ironic himself as he set down a bowl of fresh-cut fruit for her. "Lucius Fox sent it," he said by way of explanation. "No doubt he found it diverting."

Jenn laughed aloud. "I'll bet he did!" she exclaimed, ignoring the headache that had refused to go away—she figured it was a migraine and would leave with time, and since the day before had reduced to a bearable throb that hurt worst when she shifted from sitting to standing, or vice versa.

Bruce entered the kitchen as Alfred turned away, and the butler greeted him as per usual. Jenn held up the tabloid. "Hey, look, Bruce. We're getting a divorce."

There was a momentary flash of alarm in Bruce as he heard her words before common sense registered and he saw what she was holding, but he relaxed as he took it from her and looked over it.

WAYNE MARRIAGE ON THE ROCKS!

_Jenn tells Bruce to get out or clean up!_

It was dated the day before and there was a picture of them on the front, facing each other, neither looking particularly happy. If Jenn's memory served her correctly, though, it was because that particular function had _not_ been much fun, not because they were angry with one another.

"Hmm," he said, setting it back down as he sat next to Jenn. "Right, you can keep the house as long as I get the cars."

"Yeah, but I get to keep the Lotus Elise, too," she said.

"Deal," they said in unison, shaking hands.

"While I'm glad the pair of you find it amusing that the media has nothing better to do than fabricate gossip about you," Alfred said as he set a glass of juice down in front of Bruce, "I would beg you both not to encourage them."

The look Jenn and Bruce exchanged was much like two guilty children caught with their hands in the cookie jar, but both still gleeful from the misdeed. "Sorry," Jenn murmured, trying in vain to hide her smile from the observant butler as she ducked her head, apparently finding her fruit very interesting.

Bruce leaned back, taking a sip from his glass. "You know the tabloids, Alfred," he remarked evenly after swallowing. "They picked on my parents' marriage; you think it'll be any different with me? Nothing short of suing every one of them would stop them, and frankly, that's too much hassle and not something my public persona would do, so I'll just let them have their fun. It doesn't matter to me."

"Granted, sir," said Alfred stolidly, "but you _could_ show a little less amusement and a little more decorum when you find people sabotaging your name."

Jenn glanced at Bruce to see him secretly smiling at her. She stifled a laugh and leaned over to murmur to him, "He runs this household and he knows it."

"And might I remind _you_ , Madam Jenn," said Alfred as he came to scoop up her empty coffee cup and replace it with a glass of juice (beside which he placed two Tylenol, and through their banter she gave him a grateful look) though there was a definite note of teasing in his voice this time, "that whispering is impolite—and besides that, I can hear every word you're saying."

Jenn grinned unapologetically at him as she took her Tylenol and then leaned over to Bruce again. "See what I mean?"

* * *

Bruce had to leave earlier than Jenn, so she opted to stay in the kitchen a bit longer with an extra cup of coffee, attempting to wake up. For some reason, she just couldn't seem to get started, and so hadn't budged from the chair since she'd first dumped her tired limbs in it earlier in the morning.

Alfred, after cleaning up, came to sit down across from her. She looked up at him, her eyes hurting when she moved them—no doubt a result of her headache. She gave him a pained smile. "Sorry to still be hanging around," she remarked regretfully. "I'm just so tired this morning… and this headache isn't giving me any help," she said, setting down her cup and lifting one hand to her forehead.

"Have you considered the fact that it might be the consumption of so much caffeine?" Alfred asked, observing her shrewdly. She rested her head on her hand, looking at him with a slight smile.

"Unfortunately, no. Caffeine doesn't seem to affect me very much, doesn't keep me awake and doesn't give me pain when I don't get enough. Lauren always got mad at me for that; she used to get these awful headaches when she switched from six caffeinated drinks a day to one…" She sighed as a stab of pain raced across her head.

"Then I'm afraid there's only one conclusion," Alfred said, standing and circling the table to feel her forehead. To her surprise, his hand was very cool against her skin. "Yes, you're sick."

"Mmm… no," she moaned. "I can't get sick right now."

"It was bound to happen," Alfred remarked. "You've made it this far through the winter without a hint of a sneeze, and there _is_ a bug going around. It's probably just a touch of the flu, but at any rate, we've got to get you upstairs and in bed, surrounded by plenty of fluids and tissues."

Jenn gave a laugh which ended in a groan as her head protested. Knowing it would hurt like crazy, she stood up, and predictably her temples began to throb madly. She winced but headed for the phone.

"Might I ask what you're doing?" Alfred questioned.

"I have to call Edward… let him know," she said with a grimace. Alfred touched her shoulder, a certain restraining air about him.

"I'll do that, Madam—you just need to get straight to bed. Come along," he said, steering her kindly but firmly towards the stairs. She sighed, but obeyed.

* * *

As Bruce drove home, he became slowly aware that he was restless.

He was dispelling it the usual way, of course—surreptitious finger-tapping, speeding through traffic (not _too_ fast, though; not enough to outstrip his reflexes in case something unexpected should happen)—but somehow, he still couldn't keep quite still.

He knew what it was. Batman hadn't had a serious enemy for months, not since just after Bruce had married Jenn—a psycho had come to town with the intention of reducing the adults in Gotham City to teenager mentality. Turns out he'd gotten the idea from a _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ episode. Jenn had found it _very_ funny, feeling free to laugh since there were no fatalities.

Still, he hadn't heard from Gordon in months. Understandably, he was feeling a bit uneasy—since he'd first taken out Carmine Falcone and the crazies had begun to migrate to town, he didn't usually have this much time between villains. He supposed he should be grateful that no one was terrorizing the people of Gotham.

He glanced at the sky. The weather seemed eager to make up for the break it had taken yesterday; that gray cloud looked like it planned on dropping a load of snow on them before night fell. He settled back, sighing. Out of all the seasons, winter was the worst for his night work—he couldn't blend in as well with all the white snow. Spring conditions were wet, with plenty of puddles to be disturbed and to alert thugs to his appearance, and summer tended to be uncomfortably hot. Bruce found autumn the best season—cool and crisp enough, with plenty of shadow and not as much rain.

He reached the manor and parked, heading inside only to be met with Alfred. "Master Wayne," the butler greeted him formally.

"Hello, Alfred," Bruce said with a slight nod, glancing around. "Is Jenn home yet?"

"I'm afraid she never left, sir," Alfred said, and Bruce gave him a worried look. "Nothing serious, she's just picked up a bit of the flu."

Bruce nodded, understanding immediately. "She's been feeling bad since yesterday afternoon," he remarked, starting towards the stairs. "I'm going to go check in on her."

"Of course, sir," said Alfred, coming to stand at the foot of the stairs, "but she isn't in your bedroom."

Bruce turned to look at him, lifting an eyebrow. "So, where is she?"

"Apparently she was afraid she'd put you out of your bed, so she relocated to her previous bedroom. She was quite insistent about it, so I figured I'd let you deal with it in your own… _charismatic_ way."

Bruce gave a hint of a smile and nodded before completing his trek up the stairs and moving to the room that had been out of use since Jenn had stayed with him in October last year. He pushed open the door lightly to see what he assumed was her, in the middle of the bed and swathed in blankets.

He ventured in to see her eyes shut, forehead creased as if she was in unconscious pain. After a moment's contemplation, he began gently shucking her from the layers of blankets till she was covered by just a sheet. She didn't stir till he picked her up, still wrapped in the sheet, and then she opened heavy eyes with a soft moan. "What're you doing?" she asked him, voice fuzzy with sleep.

"Moving you to _your_ bed," he said resolutely, "where you'll be much more comfortable."

"No—you need to sleep there," she protested weakly, seeming not to have energy to lift her head from where it was resting against his shoulder, her fingers playing with the collar of his shirt.

Bruce gave a soft snort as he exited the room. "Jenn, I've slept in prison cots, various hard floors, outdoors—I don't think spending a few nights without my bed is going to bother me so much. You, however, need to rest thoroughly and get well."

She made a soft noise, but seemed too tired to argue with him. He set her in their bed without incident, setting the blanket over her, and then sat down, resting the backs of his fingers against her forehead. "You're warm."

She smiled slowly at him. "Generally happens when one has a fever," she said, reaching out for his other hand. He gave it to her and she grimaced. "I'm getting you all germy."

"What, Alfred didn't tell you?" he teased lightly. "I'm one of those damn people who never get sick."

She laughed softly. "You'll get sick at least _once_ during the rest of our lives. I guarantee it."

"What if you're wrong?"

"I'll buy you a new car," she said with a small smile, shutting her eyes slowly. Seeing how tired she was, Bruce leaned forward and kissed her lightly on her hot forehead.

"Go back to sleep," he said, running his hand tenderly down the side of her face. "I'll check on you before long."

"Mmm," she hummed, obviously already halfway to dreamland.

* * *

The next time Jenn dragged herself from the blurry haze of sickly sleep, in which she never really knew whether she was dreaming or awake, it was to a very quiet clinking noise. She turned her head drowsily to see Alfred removing a glass from the bedside table and replacing it with a bottle of water and some medicine. He turned his head at the movement and offered her a small smile. "How are you feeling, Madam?"

She groaned quietly. "Sick," she said, lifting a hand that felt heavier than an anvil to rest it against her head, which felt hot even to her.

"Hmm. That's to be expected," Alfred said with a nod. "While you're awake, I may as well ask you to take some medicine for that fever of yours." At her questioning look, he said, "I woke you perhaps two hours ago to take your temperature."

"I don't remember it," she said tiredly, gesturing for him to pass her the pills.

"You're just above 103 degrees," he remarked, "though, I expect some of it is from you being bundled under all those blankets."

"No wonder I feel like crap," she said as he gave her the bottle with a slightly disapproving look at her crass language. She took the pills—two small, brown ibuprofen tablets—and swallowed as much water as her closed-up throat would allow, and then fell back on the pillow with a sigh, eyes half-open. "Where's Bruce?"

"Attending his evening duties," Alfred said, taking the bottle from her still upraised hand and setting it on the nightstand before feeling her forehead.

"What time is it?" she asked, hazily surprised.

"Somewhere around two in the morning, Madam."

"Mm… sorry for keeping you up," she sighed, turning to look at him for a minute or two. Alfred, sensing that a question was coming, waited patiently, and after a moment, she asked, "Do you ever worry about him?"

He just barely paused before remarking, "Every night."

She smiled slowly, a hint of pain visible beneath. "Me, too." She sighed, looking up at the ceiling. "Every time he comes home bleeding, I'm… just terrified that the next night, he won't come home at all." She gave him a languid, sideways glance. "I bet he had to do a fair amount of convincing to get you to let him do it in the first place."

Alfred paused. "Not as much as you might think. Gotham City has long needed a hero."

"Just our luck that Bruce would decide to be that hero, hmm?" she asked with a wry smile, her eyes all but closed again.

"The worst suffering we go through is inflicted on us by our loved ones," he remarked quietly, seeing that she was drifting off. "Go back to sleep, Madam Jenn," he told her, a note of tenderness in his voice, but she'd already escaped from consciousness.

* * *

Across the city, Batman was having a tougher night than he'd first expected—which, in a way, was good. It allowed him to work out his frustrations on this tenacious burst of criminals.

After disrupting the attempted robbery of a small bank branch, he'd intervened in three potential muggings and performed one drug bust. Now, at around two thirty, he was fighting off three rapists, while the blonde woman they'd singled out as their victim was apparently too stupid to run, watching with her mouth agape.

After he'd dispatched the third thug with a batarang, he turned to go, but paused when the woman rushed forward. "Batman!" she said breathlessly.

There seemed no polite way to respond to that horrendous statement of the obvious, and he was more and more trying not to be brusque to the people he saved, so he kept silent. She grasped his gauntlet, and he shied away from the touch, his mouth turning slightly downward in a frown. This woman looked familiar…

"I knew you would save me," she sighed, looking rapturous. "I wasn't scared because I knew you would come…"

He pulled away. He needed to get going before someone stumbled upon the alley they were ensconced in. She tried to close the distance between them, but he made sure to keep at least a foot between them as he growled, "I have to go…"

"Oh, wait!" she gasped. "There's something I have to tell you."

As she moved into a stray beam of light, it all clicked. She was that woman—that young blonde that Jenn had said thought she was in love with Batman. Inwardly, he groaned. Not this! He'd hoped to avoid _ever_ encountering her while in this guise…

"…I love you!" she said euphorically.

There was absolutely nothing he could say to that. He immediately turned away, quickly detaching his grapple gun from his belt and fairly fleeing the alley.

Meredith Fille stood, her jaw slightly slack at this less that polite reception of her admission, and then shut her mouth, teeth clicking together. "Hmm…" she murmured, looking around her at the thugs. There were several interpretations to what he'd just done, only one of them flattering.

One: He was fully taken aback by her declaration and needed more time to think everything over, but would return later.

Two: He thought she was insane.

Three: He was gay.

Four: He simply didn't find her attractive.

She sighed. There were answers to those. Well, most of them. She didn't know if she could date a hermaphrodite. "If at first you don't succeed," she mused, and sidestepped one of the unconscious rapists, leaving the alley.

* * *

Natasha Walker giggled as her latest conquest pushed her up against the wall, wrapping her arms around his neck and engaging his lips with hers with a soft moan of content.

Natasha wasn't a bad girl, really—she still lived at home, helped her mom around the house, and ran errands for their feeble old neighbor, Miss Louise. She wasn't at all the type to have one night stands, but she'd just broken up with her boyfriend and was in a vengeful mood. She hadn't set out to the club with that intent, but then she'd met him.

He was cute, quiet, and polite. He listened to her intently and offered some very smart replies to her problems. By the end of the night, she'd decided to throw caution to the wind, and just hope for the best.

Maybe she'd hate herself in the morning. She'd only had two drinks, but they were apparently getting to her system, making her mind a little hazy… no, make that a _lot_ hazy. Her grip weakened as a sudden rush of wooziness hit her, and he pulled back, staring at her with alert eyes. "Why'd you stop?" she asked—or rather, slurred. Her tongue was feeling very heavy all of a sudden.

Amid the haze, she realized something with a sudden, brief bolt of clarity, and she let him go, bringing her arms down, staring at him with a sort of resigned accusation. "What did you do to me?" she asked thickly.

"I'm going to take care of you," he whispered in her ear, catching her as her knees gave out, lowering her slowly to the ground—she was just now noticing that the floor was carpeted with a plastic sheet.

She stared up at him as he reached for something. Her last conscious thought was that she might just get through this alive, if all he wanted was fun—and then something sharp dug into her neck, and everything went black.

**Chapter Six**

"Bruce, quit coddling."

"I _never_ coddle," Bruce said, feigning disapproval as he let Jenn snatch her water from him. She took a sip and noted the smile he wasn't trying very hard to conceal, and she scowled at him.

"What's so funny?"

"Oh, nothing, just… I can just tell you're getting better," he remarked.

"Oh, really?" she asked. "And how's that?"

"Because you're being monstrously cranky," he said, laughing and blocking the pillow she winged at him in an attempt to hide her own smile.

"You were serious, though?"

"When?"

"When you said you had a run-in with Meredith."

"Sadly, yes. I thought I was either going to laugh or knock her out to get away from her."

Jenn leaned back, meditating on this, and a slow smile came over her face. Bruce surveyed her expression apprehensively. "I don't like that look."

"Oh, I was just thinking," she said, too casually, "just… if _Meredith_ thinks she's in love with Batman, imagine how many teenage girls are out there, simultaneously crushing on you."

Bruce blanched slightly and stood up from where he'd been sitting on the bed. He'd dealt with star struck girls in lust with Bruce Wayne, but to have to do it all over again as Batman? "Right, I'm… not going to talk to you again till you're better," he stated, and fled the room to the sound of Jenn's wicked laughter.

Jenn looked extremely self-satisfied as she settled back into the pillows, her knees up and making big lumps in the downy blanket. Then she sneezed. And, since sneezes come in two, she sneezed again. She was muttering to herself about her cold and reaching for a tissue when the intercom sounded.

"Madam, there's a call for you." She reached over and pushed the button after blowing her nose.

"Who is it?"

"Miss Malton, I believe. She's on line two."

"Oh, cool. Thanks, Alfred."

"My pleasure, Madam."

After a second or two of self-preparation—dealing with Lauren could be exhausting when she was _well_ —Jenn reached over, picked up the phone, and keyed in to line two. "Hello?"

"Hey, Jenn!" came Lauren's boisterous voice. "Heard you were sick!"

"Oh, really? And how did you hear that?"

"On your website, of course!"

"Lauren, I don't _have_ a website."

"Really? Not even a MySpace? Figured you would, since it's so bloody popular. All right… through the grapevine, of course!"

"Fine, keep your secrets," Jenn said, stifling a yawn. "How's the wedding planning?"

"Bloody awful!" Lauren said cheerfully. "Josh and I can't agree on a thing. I think we're secretly planning to elope," she confided in her friend. Jenn hesitated.

"You _think_?"

"Well, it's such a big secret, _I_ don't even know!" laughed Lauren. Jenn rolled her eyes, but there was a smile in her voice.

"How are the kids?"

"As good as can be expected. Holly misses Bruce."

"Really," said Jenn, and laughed.

"Mm-hmm," Lauren confirmed. "He thoroughly charmed her."

"I'd imagine so. How many people know sign language, after all?"

"Not nearly enough. Hey, Riley's a juvie."

"Wait, _what?_ " demanded Jenn. Lauren laughed.

"He stole something from the local market. Mum whaled his hide and made him take it back."

"I imagine she would!" Jenn exclaimed. "What's that boy _thinking_? He's too old for that kind of thing!"

"Right now, we're pleading kleptomania," Lauren said, sounding very amused by the whole thing. "If it keeps on, though, it'll be a problem. For now, I'm settling for the fact that at least he's not into smut."

"Yeah, well… thank goodness for that." Jenn sighed. Lauren yawned. Jenn yawned. "Don't; it's contagious," she protested.

"So is laughter," said Lauren, and laughed. So did Jenn.

"Quit doing that!"

"How much do you think it would cost to change my name to Georgia?" pondered Lauren arbitrarily. Jenn paused.

"You're not still contemplating that, are you?" she asked despairingly.

"Hey, if he can be named after a state and be an archeologist and have adventures, I can, too!"

"Sure," said Jenn, stifling a yawn.

"Am I boring you?" asked Lauren in a perfectly hoity-toity tone.

"No," yawned Jenn. "Being sick just took a toll on me. My hours are screwed up and I _know_ Alfred's keeping the messages from work away from me, because they would have called at least five times by now, and—" She yawned once more, "I'm gonna have a _buttload_ of work to catch up on."

Lauren chuckled. "Brits are smart."

"What? What did _that_ have to do with anything?" Jenn demanded.

"Well, Alfred's holding your work beyond your reach so you won't get exhausted. That, I say, is smart."

"Hmph," grumbled Jenn. "Says the girl who set herself on fire _again_ last month."

"That was an accident!" Lauren insisted.

" _Sure_ it was," drawled Jenn, and then sighed. "I miss college."

"Flawless subject change," Lauren complimented her. There was a pause, and then—"Jenn, you _hated_ college," she added bluntly. "You weren't majoring in art; you were in business, and it killed you."

"Yeah," Jenn sighed, "but now that I'm _working,_ college is infinitely preferable."

"You say that now," said Lauren, "but when you're well and less cranky, you'll remember all the people at your job that you couldn't live without. Like Owen."

Jenn laughed dryly. "Ah, yes, like Owen." Owen was, for lack of a better word, a suck-up. He dated Donna, Jenn's secretary, and so he always had a reason to be hanging around Jenn's office, oozing compliments with a forked tongue. Jenn was usually polite to him, but she kept Lauren updated on his antics.

"Well, you sound tired."

"You're not going to hang up on me, are you?" asked Jenn flatly.

"Afraid so. I've got to run and _you've_ got to sleep." Jenn groaned. "Oh, you'll thank me later, cranky girl. Byeee!"

"Bye," Jenn grumbled, and they hung up.

* * *

"I see you're feeling better."

Jenn looked up from the clipboard on her lap at Bruce, who was looking down at her, and she pulled her feet up and gestured with her head for him to join her on the couch. As he did so, she nodded. "Yeah. I started squabbling with Alfred so much that he finally allowed me to migrate from the bed to the couch—heavily blanketed, of course—and gave me some of the easier work I'm behind on."

"'Work I'm behind on,'" Bruce repeated. "You sound like you're in school."

"Hmph," she said, putting down the clipboard and shifting so she wasn't so much lying on the couch as she was sitting.

"I don't see why you're getting so stressed over it," he remarked. "People take sick days. Even if you're the CEO, it shouldn't be _that_ hard to get back on schedule."

"I know, but I can't let the work just pile up. There's going to be extra to do over the next few weeks and I don't want to start _out_ behind. Give me your feet," she said, patting her lap.

"Why?" he asked, obliging.

"Because I like them. Oh, why is there going to be extra?" she asked as he looked at her with a lifted eyebrow. "Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you that." She delicately drew a fingernail down the sensitive skin of his bare foot and glanced up at him. "Edward and I are working on something. Well, we're starting on it, anyway. A program to help the city. You know, shelters and that sort of thing."

She glanced up to see that the negative expression that usually crossed his face when Edward was mentioned was dormant. Instead, he looked thoughtful. "Hm."

"'Hm'?" she quoted. "What does 'Hm' mean?"

"Does it _have_ to mean something?"

Jenn felt slightly affronted. "What, you don't think we can do it? That at the first sign of trouble, we'll turn tail and get out of there?"

"That's not what I said," he replied, and before she could start talking again, continued. "In fact, if anyone can do it, I think you can, because you have a good reason. Sheesh. You're so touchy when you've been sick." She flicked his foot painfully with her middle finger. His expression didn't change in the slightest.

"Yeah, yeah, sorry," she grumped.

"It's a good idea," he said after a minute. She nodded.

"I'll keep you posted."

They sat in silence for a moment, and then unexpectedly, Jenn laughed. Bruce lifted an eyebrow at her. "What?" he asked.

"You'll think I'm crazy." The eyebrow arched higher, as if to say _as opposed to now?_ She shrugged. "Don't say I didn't warn you. Lauren's insane."

"I think I knew that already."

"Well, the _extent_ of her insanity reaches to her physical wellbeing." He nodded, waiting, and Jenn laughed again. "When we were in college, she was obsessive about _not_ missing any classes. She wouldn't do it, no matter what. I guess her body tuned into this, because the only time she _ever_ got sick was Friday afternoon, after her last classes, and it always cleared up before Monday morning."

Bruce couldn't help but smile. "That's impossible," he said.

"I know! Somehow, though, she did it. For four years, that was it. It was a riot."

"I'm sure it was," Bruce remarked amusedly.

There was a short, mutual pause, and then Jenn sighed. "So, what's going on? Alfred won't let me the news—said I'm tired enough without being depressed to boot—so I'm going to have to depend on you."

"Well," Bruce said, a slow smile coming over his face, "the media has decided that your absence from the public confirms the rumors circulating. We, my love, are very much separated."

Jenn laughed softly, setting his foot down and snuggling up beside him. He willingly draped an arm over her shoulders. "Oh, I don't know about that," she said. "I'd say we're _very_ much in contact."

Bruce wrapped his other arm around her and kissed her head affectionately. There was silence for a moment, and then he smiled. "Are you _purring_?"

"Shut up," she said, a grin in her voice. "I was enjoying the silence."

"So was I, until you started purring."

"Humans don't purr, Bruce."

"I know one who does," he said teasingly. She smiled.

"It's far more likely that what you heard was me trying to breathe through this congestion. Makes a horrible rattling sound, you know."

"Yeah, that was probably it," Bruce conceded with a slight laugh. He paused, and then lifted his arms from around her. "Eww. You're sick."

"No duh, genius," she laughed, not letting him push her away. He affected a disapproving look.

"Jenn, how many times do I have to tell you: don't use words you can't spell."

"Oh, that's rich, coming from you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"One word: fop."

"Oh, you _didn't._ "

"Oh, I think I did," said Jenn, quickly wriggling away from him and retreating to the other side of the sofa. He glared at her for all of five seconds before relaxing.

"You're _very_ lucky that you're sick," he grumbled.

"Ha, ha, ha," Jenn said, reminiscent of a five-year-old, and she stuck out her tongue. Bruce started to laugh. Jenn kept her stupid face on for a few seconds, then the effort was too much and she, too, lapsed into laughter.

There came a knocking on the doorframe, and they both looked to see Alfred sticking his head in. "Phone call, Madam."

"Who?" Jenn asked, still smiling.

"Miss Malton."

"Oh, boy," Bruce murmured. Jenn shot a play-glare at him.

"Thanks, Alfred. Want to stay and talk with her?" she teased. "I'm sure she'd be thrilled to converse with a 'fellow Brit.'"

A faint grin was visible on his face for a brief second before he remarked, "I'm afraid not, Madam. Give her my best. She's on line two." And then he was gone.

Bruce and Jenn stared after him for a moment, and then glanced at each other. "He hightailed it out of here pretty fast," he remarked with a smile.

"Oh, hush," she grumbled. "Am I the only one who appreciates the insanity and escape from real life that Lauren provides?"

"Yes," Bruce answered without hesitation. "Because, you know the place she takes you in order to 'escape from real life?' It's worse. Much, much worse."

"Hmph," Jenn said, reaching to the phone on the coffee table and keying into the second line. "Lauren," she said, "you're on speaker phone."

"Huh?" Lauren said loudly. "Who's there with you?"

"Just Bruce. Alfred ran for it," laughed Jenn affectionately.

"Pity. It's a riot talking to him. Hullo, Bruce old chum. How are things?"

" _Things_ ," Bruce said deliberately, "are great."

"Excellent! Jenn-girl, watch out. Mum's on a rampage."

Jenn glanced at Bruce with a look of faint amusement at Lauren's seamless changing of the subject, and then leaned forward to address the phone. "What do you mean?"

"She's got babyphilia."

"Oh, no," groaned Jenn.

"What does that mean?" Bruce questioned, raising an eyebrow at his young wife. He had a certain idea of _exactly_ what it meant, but he asked for clarification all the same.

"It means," Jenn groaned, "that Hannah wants me and Lauren to have babies. _Lots_ of them."

"But not together!" chirruped Lauren. "And Christian as we are, she doesn't want me to start whelping until after I'm married. That puts all the weight on your shoulders, dear."

"Gee, thanks," Jenn grumbled, and then buried her face in one hand. "Mad, menopausal women," she could be heard muttering.

"Grandbabies!" Lauren said in a scratchy, deep-voiced tone that sounded as if she were imitating a giant, rather than her mother. "I want _grandbabies._ Give them to me—now!"

"She must have passed the 'marriage' stage," Jenn said dryly.

"That, dear Bruce," Lauren clarified without being asked, "was the phase she went through when we were halfway through college."

"'Why won't you get married?'" quoted Jenn in a soft falsetto.

"'You're pretty girls, don't tell me you haven't found any nice boys,'" Lauren recited, still not relinquishing her giant's voice.

"She gave _that_ up, a few years ago," Jenn said; "now she's hit the babies stage."

"Oh, joy," Lauren said cheerfully.

Bruce and Jenn stared at each other for a second. They had discussed children several times, before and after their marriage, and had reached a mutual agreement—they didn't plan on having any, at least for a number of years. It wasn't that they didn't want any, but they deemed that Bruce's job was much too dangerous for them to form any kind of family.

First and foremost, though they never spoke of this outright, Bruce could die, leaving any children fatherless. Beside that—and they'd discussed this several times as well—Bruce was already worried enough about his identity being discovered and Alfred and Jenn being affected because of it, let alone children, who would be in an even worse position because they couldn't fight back as effectively.

Then, when they got older, they'd likely find out what their father did, though Jenn could see the secret being kept for a long time. Afterwards, who knew if they could keep the crucial secret? Jenn wanted children, but she wanted Bruce more. His work was too important to jeopardize.

"Hey, everything just got really quiet," Lauren said suddenly. "Did Alfred come in and clock you two with a candlestick? Because _I_ would. You two are annoying."

"This coming from _you_?" Jenn questioned incredulously as Bruce gave a short laugh.

"Oh, darn, you're alive… I mean, hooray, you're alive!"

"Lauren, I'm cutting you out of my will," Jenn announced.

"Why?" Lauren asked indignantly.

"You obviously have an agenda; I'm getting rid of temptation."

"Aw…" Lauren whined, and then her tone turned hopeful as she asked, "Bruce?"

"Hey, don't talk to me. You were never in my will in the first place," said Bruce. Jenn laughed.

" _Anyway_ ," Lauren said deliberately. "How are you feeling, Jenn?"

"Better. Alfred won't let me do anything, so I'm cranky—"

"Oh, yes she is," Bruce said softly; Jenn shot him a glare and continued.

"—and I've still got germs, so I can't kiss my husband—"

"Ew," Lauren said, sounding like a six-year-old.

"—but," Jenn said, "I should be back to normal in a day or two."

"That's good," said Lauren idly.

"What's the news on Riley?" Jenn asked.

"What? Oh, yeah! I've taken to calling him the Klepto. He's sulky about it."

"Keep an eye on him," Jenn advised.

"Wait, what's this about?" questioned Bruce. Jenn flashed him a look as Lauren proceeded to laughingly explain. Bruce nodded thoughtfully when she finished. "Well, sometimes, kids just steal. Jenn, for example—"

"That was _one_ time!" Jenn protested. "I was four and I liked this little kid's toy truck! I took it back…"

"Right," Bruce said with a smirk. "Anyway, it's probably just a one-time thing. If it happens more, _then_ you should worry."

"I've got it in hand, Ace," Lauren said, and Jenn could hear her grinning. "I watch him pretty carefully, now. He's repentant enough, it seems, and we've all forgiven him, but…"

"Your trust is shattered," Jenn said simply.

"For now," Lauren remarked. She didn't sound particularly worried. "It'll build back up again. We're not stressed."

"Really? I couldn't tell," said Jenn sarcastically. Lauren laughed softly.

"Shut it, you," she ordered good-naturedly. She paused, and then said, "You know what, you two are being offensive. I think I'll go."

"Oh, no, please!" Bruce said. "Don't leave—we'll do anything!" Jenn was lost to laughter.

"Oh, it's too late now," said Lauren, taking on an affronted tone. "You two are beyond redemption. And I've got to go anyway—the twins need new clothes and I got stuck with shopping duty. Bruce, Holly says she loves you."

"Aww," said Jenn.

"Are you supposed to be telling me this?" Bruce asked, lifting an eyebrow at the phone.

"Probably not," said Lauren laconically, and laughed. Bruce allowed a slight grin.

"Tell her that I love her, too."

"Aww," said Jenn.

"Now all the two of you have to do is get rid of Jenn…" Lauren schemed.

"Lauren!" Jenn exclaimed. Her friend laughed gaily.

"Byee," she called, and disconnected. Bruce was shaking his head.

"I know," said Jenn. "My friend is just _wrong._ We've been over this. But," she said, starting to grin, "you know you love her."

Bruce said thoughtfully, "Yes… and now all we have to do is figure out how to get rid of y—"

Laughing, Jenn winged a pillow at him.

* * *

Two days later, Jenn was fully well and back at work. The problem was, as she'd predicted, her work had piled up while she'd been sick. From the second she walked in the door, people were cloying for her attention. Coffee in one hand, palm pilot in the other, she attempted to deal with it all.

"Jenn, sales are down in Connecticut—" _Sales are always down_ somewhere. _These people take too much stress onto themselves._

"Miss Redgrove, there's an issue we'd like you to take a look at—" _Bring it on… and by the way, the name is Wayne now, people._

"Donna's sick, Mrs. Wayne, is there anything I can do to—" _It'd be nice if you took the day off, Owen; without Donna as a buffer I don't think I can deal with you._

Even though she was feeling cranky and her thoughts showed it, she tried to deal with everyone without displaying that she'd much rather be at home ignoring work. Finally, she made it to her office, where Edward was waiting.

"Welcome back," he said. "How are you feeling?"

"I _was_ fine, till I walked in the door," she said with a slight, pained smile, taking a sip of coffee. "Now, I'm sort of wishing I was sick again, judging by the amount of work that seems to have piled up while I was gone."

"Well, what I'm about to tell you won't make things any better," Edward remarked.

"Oh, no," said Jenn, and then sighed resignedly. "Go ahead, give it to me straight."

"The board in Metropolis wants to close down the plant." Jenn stared at him for a moment, uncomprehending. He spread his hands in a rather helpless manner. "They want you to fly over and meet with them."

"What?" Jenn asked, finding her voice as her brow furrowed deeply. "Why?"

"Not enough profits, among other things."

"They _can't_ ," Jenn protested. "I've visited that place—there are a lot of good people working there that need those jobs. You can't just _shut down_ a whole factory, just like that."

Edward hesitated, then said, "Jenn, as much as I hate to say it, I agree. When it comes to the good of our company, this plant is nothing but a money sink." Jenn stared at him for a moment.

"Edward, the _people_ —"

"Those _people_ have done this to themselves," Edward said, firmly but a bit regretfully. "They're part of the reason. Metropolis is a party city, Jenn; it's like finding a needle in a haystack to get a dependable worker."

"But there _are_ some people like that, what about them?" Jenn asked defiantly. "What happens when they get laid off with the rest of them?"

Edward sighed and massaged his temples. "I'm sorry if it seems ruthless, Jenn. But that's business. I've been with this company for years, and a cut like this could only help us. My advice is to just let it go." He paused and look at the young CEO. "You've got a lot of heart, Jenn, and that makes decisions like these difficult. But you're going to have to decide between a few hundred people and the good of the company."

Jenn stared at him for a moment, and then took a slow breath. "When do they want me to meet with them?"

"Friday afternoon. That means you should fly out tomorrow night, or even Friday morning if you want to rush it." He passed her a folder. "I prepared some of the details for you, but if you need more information, you can always find it."

"Thank you," she said, receiving it and sitting behind her desk. Trying to forget their disagreement, she glanced up and arched an eyebrow at him. "Care to help me catch up on all this?"

"I would, Jenn, but there's a lot to be done today."

"Ah, of course."

"I'll see you at lunch, though."

"As usual," she said, with a smile that faded into a grim mask as soon as he left. She flipped open the folder and set to work.

**Chapter Seven**

Jenn didn't like to cry.

It was a standard that had been with her for pretty much her entire life. When she was young, her mother had feigned deafness when she cried to get her way or to garner sympathy, only acknowledging the tears when Jenn was in a situation of great pain or emotional crisis. When Jenn was being raised by her father, he treated tears with scorn, viewing them as a serious weakness— _that,_ more than anything, influenced Jenn's shame of crying.

By the time she'd reached the Maltons, it had been burned into her mind—tears were not to be tolerated in herself. She didn't care if other people cried, but she always felt ashamed if someone saw _her_ indulging in such an act.

Still, she wasn't immune to it. During PMS she was particularly vulnerable, when hormones were firing off everywhere and her emotions were _already_ a wreck. Buildups of frustration, anger, pain, or sadness would cause her to break down, sometimes in the most inopportune place. Still, usually she could find a cubbyhole to hide in until all traces of tears were gone from her face and no one would know of her temporary weakness.

Wayne Manor had lots of cubbyholes. She went inside and greeted Alfred, who immediately sensed something was wrong, but she evaded his concern and retreated to a window seat in one of the more out-of-the way corridors. There, she covered her face as best she could and broke down.

It was ridiculous. She didn't even know why she was doing this; she felt weak. _The first sign of an unsolvable problem at work and I come home and start sobbing, how pathetic is that?_ She felt a little better knowing that she was sick, so her defenses were down, and that she hadn't broken down at work. Hearing Edward state the brutal truth, that she couldn't do anything about it, likely brought in on.

It wasn't long before she realized someone was coming. Jenn was like a deer when crying; if she heard the slightest noise she'd jump and retreat before anyone saw her, but it was obvious that she was too late to escape invisibly now. Now, she just rearranged herself so that her face was covered well enough, consequently unable to see anything but the palms of her hands.

Bruce wasn't stupid. Doubtless alerted by Alfred, he came right to her and picked her up, sitting down and cradling her calmly on his lap. Jenn welcomed the availability of his chest to hide her face in, appreciating that he wasn't asking her what was wrong or pushing her into talking, being patient enough to wait.

She immediately began to calm down, matching her breathing to his and listening to the soothing sound of his heartbeat. Finally, even though she knew her nose and the skin around her eyes was horribly red, and felt a dire need for chapstick as her lips were overheated from all the blood that had rushed to her face, she looked up at him, sniffing slightly. "Bruce, do you think we'll end up being like our parents?"

Bruce contemplated the question for a moment, and then, "No. I'm not good enough to be like my father. And you're not bad enough to be like yours."

She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. "How do you know that? I mean, he had to start being evil _somewhere,_ right? I already have bad blood against me."

"Your mother was a saint; she leveled you out genetically." He hugged her a bit tighter. "You make your own choices, and you're a good person. I really don't think you're going to go corrupt CEO during the night."

She could see by his interested, slightly curious stare that he was wondering what had brought this on, and she brushed an untidy lock of hair out of her face, sniffing the last of her sinus obstruction away. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I think this is the first time since we've been married that I've seen you cry. Good track record."

Unwillingly, she laughed, and then smacked his shoulder lightly. "Are you going to let me go?"

"Do you _want_ to be let go?"

She considered, and then sighed. "Good point," she murmured, curling up once more and slipping her head beneath his chin. "You must think I'm insane."

"No more than usual."

"Just… in my job, I sometimes have to make really tough decisions. Sometimes I wonder if that's how my dad got the way he was by starting to make the more profitable choice, and then just started slipping into corruption." Bruce nodded. He knew what she was talking about. She sighed slightly. "Sometimes I just need to remind myself that doing the right thing is never the wrong choice."

"Your father would be ashamed."

Jenn couldn't help it; she grinned. "Quit making me smile," she said, but not exactly firmly.

"I don't have much of a choice. If I let you wallow in angst, we'll _both_ be miserable." She laughed softly, so he figured now was a safe time to ask: "So what's got you so upset?"

She sighed softly, curling her fingers in the sleeve of his shirt and glancing up at him, eyes still slightly red. "They want to shut down a mill in Metropolis," she said. "That means firing a few hundred people because the company will be better off."

"Do you have a say in it?" asked Bruce. Jenn slid from his lap, knowing that she wasn't a lightweight and she'd likely be getting heavy. He scooted over so that she could sit next to him, taking hold of her hand.

"They want me to fly out tomorrow night to discuss it, so yes, I do. I just… I don't know what I'm going to do. I'm already facing questions as to whether or not I'm capable enough to lead this company. If I force them to keep it open, people will turn mutinous." She stared ahead, lost in thought as her fingers curled around his. "The company's only mine if I can hang on to it. It'd be easier just to let it close down, but… those people."

Bruce spoke quietly. "When I was just a kid, Wayne Enterprises nearly went bankrupt. My dad was using the money to try and help the city. People started pressuring him to stop and think of the good of the company, but he didn't listen. He was so set on fixing the city, for himself, and for Mom and me, that not much else got through to him. Luckily, he was a smart man, so no one was able to take it from him."

Jenn glanced at him. "What happened?"

Bruce stared at the wall ahead, working his jaw for a second before answering. "He died. He died, and less generous men took over it until I grew old enough. It was flourishing again a year later." He shifted and glanced at her briefly. "Jenn, you're the only one who can make these decisions. It depends on what's most important to you."

She searched his face. "What do you think?"

"Honestly?" She nodded. "I think you're far too compassionate to leave these people out of work, but I think you're going to need to figure out a way to satisfy the board before you can rest easily."

She sighed gloomily. "That sounds about right. It's… it's really stupid, Bruce, but this company's important to me. I don't even know why; it's the brainchild of my father and I didn't like him. I mean, I was even _raised_ thinking that it wasn't a woman's place to work like I do." She paused, and then said wryly, "Then again, if I didn't have this, all I'd have to do would be to lie around and get sauced all day long."

Bruce kissed her temple softly. "I think you'll do fine." He tugged lightly at her hand. "Come on, don't worry about it for now. Alfred has dinner ready."

"Dinner." She shook her head with a slight smile. "You Yankee, it's called _supper._ "

"No, I think everyone calls it dinner now," he said, smiling as he stood and drew her up.

"Yeah, but that's a Yankee institution. It used to be breakfast, dinner, supper, but after the War Between the States, the northern word 'lunch' came into being, thus offering us today's common—"

Laughing, Bruce covered her mouth with his hand.

* * *

Jenn woke up on the floor.

She hadn't awoken when Bruce came home that evening. It took her a moment to realize what had happened, but within five seconds it all snapped into place as she heard the distressed groans coming from the bed above and she reached the realization that she'd just landed on the cold wood a second or two before she'd awoken.

She pushed herself up, putting an elbow on the bed for support and then standing to survey the damage. He was tangled up in the sheets, moving more violently than she'd yet seen him, fighting an unseen adversary. He was gasping and after a moment she saw in the moonlight that his cheeks were wet; he was crying in his sleep.

She knew immediately that it would be cruel not to wake him up, and so she tapped him, hard, on his shoulder. "Bruce!"

His eyes remained closed as one of his hands shot out and closed around her wrist, and she gasped as he twisted it almost to the breaking point. "Don't." She couldn't tell if the voice was Bruce or Batman; it was torn, ragged, by the raw emotion that only dreams could bring.

Ignoring the pain from the wrist that he still held, she curled her fingers in his hair. "Sorry," she breathed, and gave a sharp yank.

His eyes snapped open and he sat straight up, his grip loosening. She pulled back her wrist and sat down on the bed as he looked slowly around, realizing what was going on, and then ran his palm beneath his eyes, feeling the still-warm tears chill on his hand as he looked at them.

Jenn moved closer, and before she knew it she was rubbing his bare back—something her mother, and later Hannah Malton, had done when she was in the worst distress. There was something infinitely soothing about it. Bruce didn't speak, just bowed his head, arms stretched out and elbows rested on his bent knees.

She quickly became aware that he was shaking. No… he wasn't crying, but the trembling was almost as bad as if he were. When he finally spoke, she was expecting it, his voice still ragged. "The nightmares… they're getting worse."

She pressed herself closer, draping her arms around his shoulders, turning her head against the back of his neck. He reached up with one of his hands and grasped hers, turning his head slightly as she pressed a light kiss to the back of his shoulder. "I wish I could make them go away," she whispered into the dark.

There was a moment's stillness and then he turned to her; reading his intent, she moved closer and their lips met halfway.

* * *

The next morning, Jenn woke first. She smiled wryly as she saw that there was a bruise on her arm where she'd fallen; she hadn't realized she'd landed that hard.

She avoided the kitchen, where Alfred would doubtless make her eat. She wasn't hungry, though she knew if he caught sight of her he'd insist that breakfast was very important and she _couldn't_ just skip it. Instead, she went straight to the gym. She needed to dispel some useless energy.

That's where Bruce found her more than an hour later, after he'd dragged himself out of bed and to the kitchen, only to be informed by a disapproving Alfred that Madam Jenn was in the gym and refused to come and eat, having only had water since she woke up.

She was working on the punching bag. Her knuckles were wrapped, as prolonged exposure to the bag caused them to split painfully, and she'd had enough of that in the past year. She could probably see him out of the corner of her eye, but he rapped on the doorframe he was leaning on just in case.

She reached out to stop the swinging bag and glanced at him, panting slightly, a light sheen of sweat on the skin bared by the white tank top she wore over a pair of workout shorts. She gave him a once-over and her teeth flashed in a brief smile. " _You_ look like shit."

"Early meeting," Bruce said, using his shoulder to push off from the doorframe and come into the room. "Go figure." She nodded, looking slightly amused, and then returned her attention to the punching bag. Bruce lifted his eyebrows and crossed his arms as he watched her. "So. Alfred says you won't eat and I come down here to find you beating up the bag as if it committed a personal offense against you… which leads me to the logical conclusion that you're angry."

She glanced at him, speaking through the short breaths and sharp jabs. "You know, God recommends fasting. In the Bible, He says that it's good for meditation, prayer. Oh, not to the point of malnutrition, probably, but there it is." She lunged out with a slightly more vicious punch, which made the bag swing violently. She paused in the onslaught and turned to her husband. "Angry? No. I'm not. Thoughtful, yes."

"And would I be able to ask what you're thinking about without getting singed?" Bruce questioned, sitting on one of the workout benches and quirking a brow.

"Well, what are we always thinking about nowadays? Us, our businesses, or your nights. In this case, it happens to be the latter. I'm wondering if there's a trigger involved in your nightmares, something that makes you have them as opposed to just… spontaneous brain activity," she said, almost absent-mindedly unwinding the wraps around her wrists.

Bruce contemplated for a moment, but his thoughts were cut off when he saw her arm, and he pointed. "You're bruised," he said, sounding resigned. He'd probably guessed why. She lifted her arm and examined it, looking unsurprised.

"Mm. Yes. It doesn't hurt."

He hung his head momentarily, his shoulders rising, and then he looked up, looking as if he were preparing himself for something. "Jenn. It's starting to get dangerous for you to—"

She held up a hand. "Don't. I know what you're going to say."

He stopped, and looked at her with tired green eyes. "What _am_ I going to say?"

"You think that you're going to hurt me one of these nights. You're wondering if it's still safe for me to sleep in the same bed with you when you're visited by these nightmares," she said, turning back and starting to beat up the bag again, her knuckles bare.

Bruce moved quickly, standing and circling around to grab her fists, blocking the bag from her blows. "Jenn, you're not thinking clearly."

"Oh, yeah? What makes you say that?" she questioned irritably, trying to pull her hands away, but he kept a firm hold on them.

"Well, for one," he said, turning her hands over in his, "you just unwrapped your hands. I don't think you want bloody knuckles again after last year's experience."

She sighed and relaxed minutely, realizing that he was right, and then looked up at him with a glint of stubbornness in her eyes. He stood close, still holding on to her hands as he looked at her.

"And you're right," he said, "I _was_ thinking that." She sighed and turned her head away; he tightened his grip. "No, listen to me," he insisted, glancing down and running a thumb over the back of her hand. "You know what I'm capable of. If I get too violent one night…" He swallowed and looked up. "I could kill you."

She met his eyes, one corner of her mouth pulled upwards almost unwillingly. "You're being a bit dramatic, aren't you?"

"I'm serious," he said gravely, letting go of her left hand with his right and reaching up to cup that side of her face. "It wouldn't take too much. Jenn… if I woke up one night to find that I'd—" He broke off, shaking his head, either unable or unwilling to finish.

She moved closer, leaning into his touch and looking straight at him. "Bruce… we're having enough trouble finding time to be together as it is. If we give up our nights… we'll only have that occasional afternoon when we can both get off from work." She shook her head. "I've seen couples who don't sleep in the same bed. Divorce always seems imminent, divorce or total apathy." She paused. "You _aren't_ going to kill me in your sleep. I can tell when you're getting serious."

"Then what was last night?" The question was quiet but persistent. He was unwilling to let her just slip out of this.

"Last night was an exception," she said. "And you didn't hurt me, you just pushed me off the bed."

"All we'd need is one more exception," Bruce replied, "and you could be dead. I'm not going to let that happen."

"Bruce," she said pleadingly, sensing that he was starting to withdraw, that she was losing this argument, "please. Please, not now, at least. Wait just a little longer. I'm headed to Metropolis tonight, you can think about it then without any danger. If you hurt me, maybe we _should_ try it… but till then… please," she repeated weakly, her eyes beseeching him.

They stared at each other for a long time, both unwilling to break eye contact. After minutes had passed, Bruce gave a barely perceptible nod. "All right. For now," he muttered, looking away. Relieved, Jenn knew that he'd taken that tone because he felt guilty for giving in, but was particularly glad he had at the moment and so she didn't worry. She curled her hand around the back of his neck and stood on tiptoe to kiss him deeply, instilling her gratefulness in the contact.

Getting rather involved, they slowly backed up until Bruce hit the wall, and might have gone further yet when a discreet rapping at the doorframe interrupted them. They looked to see Alfred there, looking long-suffering.

"Perhaps, Madam Jenn, you'll find it wise to eat now? You're due at work in forty minutes and you need to keep up your strength." He turned and left, presumably to the kitchen.

Jenn groaned, tipping her head onto Bruce's chest. "This is his way of getting back at me for not eating immediately after I woke up," she muttered to him. He smirked, taking her hand and twirling her around so he could lead her to the kitchen.

"Don't cross him," he advised. "I've known him all my life and have never once gotten the better of him."

"Thanks for the advice."

* * *

Jenn shut and locked her suitcase with a click, hefting it onto the bed with her carry-on bag. She glanced around the room, scrutinizing it before she turned to Alfred. "I think we've got everything. Thanks for your help; I can never find _anything_ ," she said ruefully.

"It was my pleasure, Madam."

"Now. Do you know where Bruce is?"

A hint of a smile caused Alfred's mouth to twitch. "Where he usually is when trying to avoid doing something."

"The cave, then," she said with a smile. "Thanks."

She headed downstairs and into the study. Upon the destruction of the manor almost two years ago, they'd had the chance to reorganize the entrances to the cave. They'd redone the piano entrance, and added a few more secret knobs—hard to press, so someone didn't accidentally lean against them. She found one of the knobs and pushed on it, and a passage slid open quietly.

The wall passages didn't lead to an elevator, like the piano passage. Instead, they converted quickly into a downward-spiraling staircase. This took more time, as did finding the knob, so when Bruce was in a hurry, he generally used the piano. Jenn was trying to procrastinate the airport, so she took the longer way.

Downstairs, he was bent over a tool bench, repairing something for future use. She smiled. "Hey, big-head!"

He straightened and shot her a look over his shoulder. _Did you just call me big-head_? his eyes asked. She just grinned, settling into a hip. "I'm about to head out," she announced.

"Mm," Bruce acknowledged, rolling his shoulders back to work out the kinks caused from bending over something for too long. "You need a ride?"

"Alfred's taking me," she said, though they'd been over this before. "I'll be back in a couple of days." She looked at him for a minute, then crossed the cave and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. When they stepped apart, she sighed. "I'd say that I'm missing you already, but that sounds _so_ corny."

Bruce laughed shortly as he gathered her into his arms. She looped one arm around his waist and clung to his elbow with the other hand, resting her head on his chest. "You're too dependent on me, woman."

"Are you complaining?" she asked, suppressing a smirk.

"I suppose not," he conceded.

"We flirt too much," Jenn said as he let her go. He stared at her, one eyebrow arched.

"Well," he said after a minute, "I suppose I could rearrange my schedule so we barely see each other—you could take up drinking and I'm _sure_ I can find a mistress _somewhere_ —"

"Stop!" she laughed. "You sound like the tabloids. Personally, I prefer the flirting."

"Good," he said, turning away. "I'll see you when you get back."

**Chapter Eight**

The night lights of Metropolis really _were_ as beautiful as everyone said they were. Jenn, who hadn't been there since she was a teenager, and then in the daytime, was slightly enthralled, despite how tired she was. It had been a long flight, and was around three in the morning, but still, she had a love for cities at night and sat staring out the window with a pensive expression.

Where Gotham's lights were white and yellow, the lights of Metropolis seemed more on the side of green and blue. Gotham harbored an air of desperation, touched with hope since its hero's appearance. Metropolis seemed cheerful and carefree.

Jenn decided just then that she didn't like this city very much. It lied, hid its crime behind a veil of parties and fabulous celebrities. There was something stripped, raw… _honest_ about Gotham that the superficial Metropolis didn't have.

She moved away from the window, breathing a sigh of weariness. It was late, and she was already ready to go home, not to the cold, formal hotel she'd be staying at. Her consolation was that this was a relatively short trip. She leaned her head back against the leather interior and shut her eyes.

It would all be over soon.

* * *

Morning came, and she had nothing to do. One would assume that she'd want to catch up on her sleep, but her body said otherwise, waking her up at 7:30 and refusing to let her go to sleep again.

So, she got up, layered a black tank top beneath a thin, dark green, long-sleeved shirt, and pulled on a pair of jeans. It was warmer in Metropolis in March than it was in Gotham City, so she didn't need a jacket—she just tugged on a pair of suede boots and hit the street.

It was much safer to walk around in Metropolis than it was in her city, as evidenced by the masses on the sidewalk. Within seconds of reaching the street, she was pulled into the teeming crowd, jostled and bumped and whistled at more times than she could count.

Well, wasn't _this_ fun? She checked her watch with a sigh. She had to burn five hours before her meeting, and even if she subtracted an hour for preparation, it still left her with too much time on her hands.

A thought struck her, and within seconds, she had her cell phone out of her bag. Speed dial one brought her directly to the Wayne Manor, and everyone's favorite butler answered on the second ring.

"Good morning, Alfred!" she chirped, immediately heartened at the sound of his voice.

"Ah, good morning, Madam. I trust that you slept well?"

"As well as could be expected in a strange bed," she sighed. "You're two hours ahead, right?"

"That's correct, Madam."

"Did Bruce have a late night, or is he awake?"

"He's awake, and judging by the massive amounts of coffee he's consumed combined with his grouchiness, I believe he was out late as well."

"Well, if he's so tired, why isn't he still in bed?"

"Why don't I let you ask _him_ that?" he questioned. A second later, Bruce's voice came over the phone, as low and clear as if he were standing right next to her, and the sound of it instantly put a smile on her face.

"How'd you sleep?"

"Awful," she answered, cheerful despite her answer. "Every time I was in the halfway state—you know, drifting off?—I was expecting you to climb into bed any minute. Then, I'd remember that you weren't there and wake up. What about you?"

"Same. Tossed and turned all night and woke up about an hour ago." There was a pause, and then, with a certain amount of disgust, he said, "The bed's all _cold_ without you there."

"Aww," Jenn said, and laughed. "You poor thing. If anyone needs his sleep, it's you. I'll be back by tomorrow night, then everything will be all warm again for you."

"I hope so." He sighed. "I swear, I might actually take a nap today."

"Wow, you _must_ be tired," she said. "I really can't remember the last time you did that."

"Are you laughing at me?"

"Possibly."

"That's all right. I think I might just have gotten used to it by now."

It was around that time when she spotted a familiar face. She might have never have noticed him in the crowd if not for the utter lack of hair on his head, but as it was, Lex Luthor was walking about a quarter of a block ahead of her.

"Hey," she said to Bruce, "let me call you back, okay?"

"What is it?" he questioned.

"No, something just came up. I'll call you back. Bye."

"Bye…"

She snapped the phone shut and dropped it in her purse, quickening her pace in order to catch up. She waited till she got relatively close before saying, "Hey, Lex."

He turned slightly, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye—checking, she was sure, if she was someone to ignore, or someone worth speaking to. She must have passed the test, because he turned further. "Jenn… what are you doing here?"

Jenn wasn't well-acquainted with Lex by any means. They'd met the December before at a Gotham party, him coming in from the balcony, her heading out. They were both snagged by a local busybody and introduced. Lex had seemed edgy and uncomfortable, so Jenn's Southern instincts kicked in, and she set about attempting to put him at ease.

By the time Bruce arrived on the scene, apparently tipped off by that same busybody that "your wife was talking to an old _friend_ of yours… you know, Lex Luthor?", Lex had seemed to warm up to her considerably. Maybe, as Bruce had pointed out, it was just the fact that she was Bruce's wife, and since he and Lex had been rivals since a falling-out in college, perhaps he sensed an opportunity to make trouble.

Jenn had disagreed. She figured Lex was a bit moody, but relatively harmless. She also thought that he was lonely. Bruce thought she was being naïve. She thought _he_ was being selfish. It had been one of their rare blowouts.

That was why she'd neglected to tell Bruce exactly why she'd ended their phone call. She knew he'd raise a fuss over it, since he'd basically forbidden her to have anything to do with Lex. She pushed the thought aside and smiled at the bald billionaire. "Business trip. I flew in last night and I'm meeting with the board later on today."

Lex checked his watch. "How much time do you have?"

"Um… about four hours."

He thumbed back over his shoulder. "I was just about to grab a cup of coffee. Want to come?"

She viewed him with a lifted eyebrow and a slight smile. "You know, Bruce seems determined that you're waiting around to seduce me. You aren't, are you?"

She saw one corner of his mouth twitching up in a smile he quickly controlled. She wasn't sure what his problem with facial expressions was, but she figured it had something to do with his upbringing—maybe in his family they were viewed as a weapon to be used against the person showing emotion. "No, Jenn; you're not exactly my type."

She knew better than to take that as an insult. "Excellent," she said. "In that case, I'd be very happy to come with you."

Five minutes later, the two of them were seated in a coffee shop—busy with the morning rush, but that just meant that she at least had a lesser chance of being recognized. This was Lex's home city; people knew him here, but they also knew not to approach. So far, no one had shown any sign of knowing who Jenn was—after all, CEOs weren't nearly as well known as actors or singers. She was acknowledged in Gotham, but Metropolis wasn't her home.

She spent a moment just smelling her cappuccino—almost better than drinking the liquid caffeine itself. She sighed. "Oh, man—this _has_ to be God's gift to mankind. I'm going to persuade Alfred to let me buy a cappuccino machine when I get home."

Lex nodded slightly, and she spotted a small gleam in his eye. "Not as good as black coffee for staying awake, but it tastes much better."

"You drink it black?" she questioned, and when he nodded, she shuddered. "Ugh. I have a friend who's done that since she was seventeen, but I still can't take it. I respect people who can."

She spotted that slight gleam again, and then he changed the subject. "So, you're in town on business?" The question was for her to clarify—he knew very well her reason for being in Metropolis, but he wanted the specifics. Jenn paused, a moment's suspicion stirring in her, but she pushed it aside. After all, he was a businessman.

"Yeah—the board here wants to close down our plant in Metropolis."

He raised his eyebrows. "Really."

"Yep." She eyed him for a moment, and then realized that he must want to know because his company was based in Metropolis. If her corporation pulled out, it would give him freer reign over the city. "They say that Metropolis is too much of a party city for it to function properly in."

"Hard to find good workers?" he questioned.

" _Very_ ," she sighed, taking a sip. He allowed a slight smirk—the _one_ expression he seemed to display regularly.

"We probably stole them from you."

She stopped, and then laughed. "You probably did. Thanks a _lot,_ Lex. "Her mood changing swiftly, she sighed. "It's the hardworking ones we have that I'm worried about. I know we have a good many of them, several hundred, and if we just shut the thing down they're going to be left without jobs. That gives us a tremendous problem."

"Hmm." Lex set his cup on the table and rested the edge of his hand against his mouth, leaning back and looking at her. She raised an eyebrow.

"What?"

"Nothing… it's just that most people in our positions don't really… _care_ about their employees _._ _I_ don't care," he said honestly. She thought on this for a moment, and then gave him a wry smile.

"I'm afraid it comes naturally for me, so I can't take credit for it. I wasn't raised to take over the business like you were, at least not till a certain age. But I'm glad I think the way I do—I mean, these are the legs of the corporation. Without them, there would be _nothing._ "

"Typical Smallville," he said, very quietly.

"Excuse me?"

"It was a town I lived in for a few years, a while ago. Your mindset reminds me of the people there." His mouth twitched and one of his eyebrows took a rather cynical lift. "They seemed to have a lot of trouble with outsiders, though."

"Ah, I think I can guess what that means."

Lex gave a slight nod, and then paused for a moment. "Well, back to the topic of our people—if they really do work hard, they shouldn't have a problem finding a new job. I'm sure that _I_ could take some of them off your hands—every business here could use some more good workers."

Jenn froze. "What did you say?"

Lex lifted and eyebrow. "What?" he asked.

"I think you might have just given me an idea," she said slowly.

"Really."

"Yeah," she said, groping for her bag. "Oh, man—I've got to go and figure this all out." Lex watched in bemusement as she slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder and grabbed her coffee. "Thanks, Lex!" she said rapidly. She kissed the rather stunned man on the side of his head and darted from the shop, mind buzzing with activity and leaving behind a definitely curious Luthor.

* * *

"Hold up, now, Jenn," Edward Baker said over the phone. "You want to _what_?"

Back in her hotel room, Jenn was rummaging through all the data she had and using her shoulder as a spare hand, employing it to hold the phone up to her ear. "Set up a program. Send people in to sort out the bad workers from the good ones. We can find jobs for the reliable people."

Edward's voice was doubtful. "I don't know, Jenn. It sounds kind of superfluous."

"It might be, but it would only involve keeping the plant open a few more weeks while I get this done. It'll build a good reputation, too—Edward, help me on this."

"All right—all right," he said after a minute. "Give me a half-hour to think, and I'll call you back."

"Okay—in the meantime, I'll be trying to figure out exactly how to present this."

They hung up and Jenn stopped for a second to think. It was a wild card, to be sure. There wouldn't be much in it for the company except for good publicity, but if she could put enough arguments forward, she could make it look _very_ good. Still, whether they went for it or not, she had the last word, and this was what she was doing.

* * *

This was getting absolutely ridiculous.

This was the _third_ time in a week that Batman had swooped down to discourage potential rapists—all three occurrences having the same victim. He was very, _very_ tempted to just leave and let them do whatever they wanted to the foolish young woman. However, he _was_ morally obligated…

This inner debate went on as he studiously eliminated the three, taking them out with absolutely no trouble. They were just a group of skinhead kids, terrified by the appearance of the giant shadow from out of nowhere.

By the time the last boy was out cold, he'd reached a conclusion to his inner warfare, and turned to the love-struck blonde, who was reaching towards him for the third time. He held up a gauntleted hand, summoning his harshest voice. "No," he growled. She stopped, but that became a _bad_ thing as she started talking.

"Oh, Batman!" she cried rapturously. "You saved me—again!"

"Yes," he snarled, trying to instill some fear in this bit of fluff, "and I'm getting very, _very_ tired of it all." She blinked big, innocent-looking eyes at him, as if she imagined that might elicit some positive response.

"It's such a dangerous city," she said winsomely. "And you're so _brave_ to always save me, just in the nick of time!" She stepped towards him again. He very quickly took a step back and held his hand out again, retreating further into the shadows.

"Stop," he ordered. He felt the sudden urge to pinch the bridge of his nose to ward off the coming headache, but as it was currently hidden by a thin layer of black graphite, he resisted. "There's a point where accident stops and foolishness begins," he growled after a moment. "You've crossed the line into foolishness."

She drew back slightly, looking hurt. "But—I only wanted to see you."

He emitted a low, guttural-sounding growl. "You are interfering with my _work,_ " he said articulately. "Now, listen to me _very_ carefully. Next time you decide to take a stroll at night and end up getting attacked, you'd better have some mace on you, because I am _not_ going to save you again. Do you understand?"

"But—" she protested.

" _Do you understand?_ " he roared. She shrank back immediately.

"Yes," she whimpered.

Batman felt a momentary stab of guilt. After all, she was just a girl with a crush, and here he was, simultaneously dashing her hopes and scaring her to death. The former was absolutely necessary, but the latter…

There was a moment's uncomfortable silence, and then he said, trying not to feel awkward, "It'll get easier." Afterwards, he got out of there as quickly as possibly.

He didn't see the way Meredith's eyes lit up, or the stubborn jut to her chin. She sighed, smitten, as he disappeared from her sight. "He feels something for me," she breathed to herself. "He's just afraid it'll get in the way."

She smiled slowly, looking over the fallen muggers, and stepped out of the alley, an idea taking root in her mind. _If he doesn't want to save me again, then maybe he'd rather save people_ from _me._ The thought made sense to her.

She went away to plan their next meeting.

* * *

"You _must_ be bored, calling me from a plane phone at four o'clock in the morning."

"I know you'd still be up, Lauren," rejoined Jenn. "And I want to talk to Bruce in _person._ Plus, it's not four _here._ "

"Hmph. You're lucky I stay up late. I was about to go to sleep."

"Actually, it _was_ kind of a gamble. I wasn't sure if your sleeping patterns were the same as they were in college."

"Well, it's always nice to know that a friend won't hesitate to wake you up when they're feeling a little bored."

"You know you love me. Anyway, my flight was delayed and I spent the time reading the book I brought, which means I have nothing to read _now_. I'm too wired to sleep and I've gloated enough over the business meeting."

"Speaking of," Lauren said, "that was the most roundabout, twisted way of being nice I've ever heard of. Congratulations on being weird."

"It worked, though!" Jenn laughed. "I still can't believe it. I need to remember to thank Lex," she mused, half to herself.

"Slam on brakes _right_ there," the Englishwoman ordered. "Who's Lex?"

"Lex Luthor," Jenn clarified.

Lauren pondered for a moment. "You mean the hot billionaire who makes being bald look like the next sexy big thing?"

"That'd be the one," sighed Jenn resignedly.

"You didn't tell me you knew him!" There was a slightly accusing note in Lauren's tone.

"Hey, don't get _mad_ at me," Jenn said quickly. "We've only met once before, and right afterwards Bruce got all pissed at me for talking to him. Turns out they're old college rivals, but I think it's something deeper than that, or Bruce wouldn't have made a fuss." She paused thoughtfully, and then said, "I don't think he thinks Lex is worth trusting."

"So you're giving Sexy Lexy the benefit of the doubt." Jenn stopped for a second, stunned.

"You did _not_ just say 'Sexy Lexy.' _Please_ tell me that you didn't say that."

"Sorry, love. It's the sleep deprivation talking."

"I'll never be able to look him in the eye again. Thanks a lot. But to answer, yes, I figure he's not quite as bad as Bruce thinks."

"Let's hope you're right," yawned Lauren. "Because if you're not, I can see trouble ahead. If you want, I'll marry Lex and ease Bruce's mind a little."

"You're marrying Josh," Jenn pointed out.

"I'll move to Utah. Josh can be the love of my life and Lex can be my sugar daddy."

"That's so gross. And polygamy was outlawed in Utah a _while_ back."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Wow. You learn something new _every_ single day. Well, it doesn't matter. I'll marry one and have an affair for the other."

Jenn sighed, though she was smiling. "And _this_ is what came of the two college girls watching _Sharpe_ movies and sighing over Sean Bean."

"Hey, Sean Bean's still hot," Lauren said.

"He's too old for us," Jenn pointed out.

"So?"

"He has children only a few years younger."

"And?"

"Lauren, you have no morals. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"I'm just energetic!" chirruped the Englishwoman. Jenn rolled her eyes fondly.

"Sure. All right, just to boost your self-esteem, I'm telling you that your conversation skills have served to make me sleepy. I'm going to hang up and then try to go to sleep."

"Oh, that makes me feel _wonderful_ ; especially since you kept me up to have this conversation." Lauren paused, and then said with a distinct tone of amusement, "Our lives are strange, aren't they?"

Jenn laughed aloud. "You have _no_ idea. Wait till you get married, love."

"Right, we'll see. Cheerio."

"Ta. I'll talk to you again when things get less crazy."

* * *

Somewhere in the city, something violent was occurring.

This was away from the careful eyes of police; the merciless gaze of Batman couldn't see behind closed doors and prying neighbors only heard a thump or two. Nobody suspected what was going on inside the small, dark apartment.

Inside, a man held a woman close in a crushing grip. She struggled sluggishly, but her cries were muffled behind a gag, efforts to escape hindered by ties that bound her hands. He smiled at her, almost kindly, though the smile didn't show his teeth. His eyes glinted with an almost inhuman light.

He went for the kill.

**Chapter Nine**

It was cold.

Bruce tried to ignore it, but they were having what Alfred predicted to be the last cold snap before things started warming up for the spring, and the cave was cut off from the heating system. He was freezing, the racing blood from earlier that night having long ago cooled. The icy water only made things worse, and so he finished up in the cave as quickly as he possibly could. Before heading upstairs, he glanced at the clock—3:22 AM. Jenn should have gotten home around midnight, so by now she should be fast asleep.

He was used to the silence of the house at this time of night; actually found it comforting after the noise and chaos of the city. The moonlight streaming in through the numerous windows was sufficient to light his way, but nonetheless, Alfred always left a few of the dimmer lights on, which he dutifully switched off on his way to the west wing's second floor, where he and Jenn spent the majority of their time.

During their mere months of marriage, they'd made a bit of a nest out of that area. There was the bedroom—still not the master bedroom; Bruce felt that it would be too odd to stay in the same room where his parents had once resided, and Jenn seemed to agree. He _had_ moved out of his old bedroom, though, into one of the larger rooms that had previously been for guests.

There was a study, where Jenn spent a lot of time when she was able to work from home. Then, the area where they spent time just being together was the living room. He'd just reached the top of the stairs when he realized that this latter room was lit up. He paused, and then bypassed the bedroom to check it out.

He couldn't see that anyone occupied the room. He walked forward to cut off the light, and then realized that Jenn was curled up on the couch, previously hidden from view. He paused for a second, crossing his arms as he looked down at her, and an unconscious smile came over his face.

For a moment, he debated with himself, trying to decide whether he should wake her or grab a blanket and join her. The decision was made easier when he remembered that that couch, when slept on, guaranteed irate muscles the next day. He bent over his wife, gently touching her shoulder. "Hey, Jenn," he said softly. "Jenn, wake up."

It took a moment, but she opened her eyes and blinked for a second or two, then a sleepy smile came over her face. "Hey," she said, sitting up and giving a slight moan as the sore muscles kicked in. "I meant to stay up and wait for you, but I kind of dozed off."

"I can see that," he said with a slight smirk, glancing over her. "How does your back feel right about now?"

"Oh, ha, ha," she grumbled good-naturedly, stretching. "I don't think I've been asleep long enough for that couch to do any real damage." She looked ruefully at the piece of furniture in question, doubtless remembering many times when it _had._ "We really need to get a new one."

"Or," he said, sitting next to her and draping an arm over her shoulders, "you _could_ just remember not to sleep here." He sighed as he felt the effects of a hard night kick in at the shift of position. Jenn snuggled up next to him, sharing her warmth.

"You sound sore," she murmured. Bruce gave a dry chuckle; he hadn't known anyone could _sound_ sore. Apparently, he was wrong there. "Was it a hard day's night?" she questioned with a smirk.

"Actually, yeah," he answered, smiling at the reference. The Beatles was one of the few bands that the pair of them agreed on, though they had a few more notable points of interest. "I had yet _another_ run-in with your friend."

"Who? Oh," she said, belatedly realizing who he meant and giving a sleepy laugh. "You poor thing."

"Yeah. That was the third time, I hope you realize."

"You ran a background check, didn't you?"

At the reminder, he straightened up a little and frowned. "Yeah, about a week ago. I meant to talk to you about that—it was really odd. I couldn't find _anything_ about her before a few months ago, when she first started making headlines in Gotham's society. I mean, people often will change their names when they get into the fame business, but with a little extra probing, you can usually find out all you need to know. With her… there was nothing."

He could feel Jenn tense slightly in his arms. "Should we be worried?"

"We need to be on our guard, and I'm going to run a few more checks," he said, a note of certainty in his tone. "But, for some reason, she strikes me as a little pathetic more than anything else."

"Bruce," Jenn said with mild disapproval.

"You have to admit it, Jenn," he said, moving his arm to shake her a little. "Come on. A teenager, I could understand, but grown women don't just fall in love with masked men. She hasn't even thought about Batman's private life. I mean, I could be married."

"Or gay," she said, a little wickedly. He jogged her again.

"That wasn't nice," he said disapprovingly.

"Just stating the possibilities, love." Her voice was getting slightly thicker as she grew more comfortable and began to succumb to sleep again. Bruce lifted an eyebrow and tilted his head so he could see her face. Her eyes were shut.

"Jenn, you're not going to sleep again, are you?"

"Mmm." She didn't open her eyes.

"You know what happens when you sleep on this couch. Is it really worth the pain in the morning?"

"…not that bad," she murmured into his arm, "—big baby."

Bruce laughed softly. If _that_ didn't justify letting her experience the sore muscles in the morning, he wasn't sure what did… but he shifted slightly, getting a little more comfortable. He resolved to let her doze for about five more minutes, then wake her up and make her relocate to the bed. Or carry her, if she insisted that she was too sleepy to move. As he watched the clock, he felt his eyelids begin to droop slowly.

And so it was that both of them ended up sleeping on the couch that night.

* * *

Jenn woke up by herself on the couch, and as she moved, immediately gave a piteous moan of pain. She glared at the cushion beneath her. "I dub thee the Evil Sofa of Doom," she informed it, and then forced herself to stand.

She nearly fell over, her legs having been cramped most of the night and just now regaining circulation. Using a bookshelf for balance, she waited till some of the feeling had returned to her legs, and then checked the clock.

It was 8:03 AM, and she was now feeling rather curious. If she remembered correctly, Bruce had been with her when she'd fallen asleep. That left two choices. The first, Bruce had left her to suffer through the couch-inflicted miseries and gone to his comfy bed late last night—but that was unlikely. He'd proven several times that he wasn't averse to carrying her down the hall if she was too lazy to move. The second option, then, was that he'd fallen asleep _with_ her and had just awoken earlier. She could see that—if he'd been uncomfortable, he probably would have gotten up an hour or two ago.

She must have been out like a light, since she couldn't remember any movement on his part. Rubbing absently at her head and experiencing the rumpled feeling that came from sleeping in one's clothes, she went downstairs to the kitchen.

Alfred was there, but Bruce was nowhere in sight. "Morning, Alfred," she greeted him, and he responded in kind. After looking around, she said, "You didn't happen to see my husband, did you?"

"Actually, I have," he replied. "He retired to the study about fifteen minutes ago."

"The study down the hall?"

"One and the same. Oh, and Madam?" he said, as she turned to go. She turned back, eyebrow lifted quizzically. Now that she took note, Alfred seemed a bit… troubled. "He was in a dour mood when we last spoke."

She turned fully, facing him with a bemused expression. "Dour? What do you mean? Why?"

Alfred seemed decidedly uncomfortable, though she would have thought it impossible of the distinguished man. "I believe it may have something to do with your visit to Metropolis, Madam."

"Hmm." Her eyebrows lowered slightly in worry, and she nodded absently. "Thank you, Alfred. I'll go and see what it's about." He nodded, and she went.

The study in question had been Bruce's father's favorite. It was rich and Elizabethan, the décor taking a decidedly different turn from the Gothic flair that pervaded the rest of the house. Bruce usually only used it when he was in an intensely meditative state, which worried her. She was beginning to have an idea of what this was about, which might have been worse than having no clue at all.

Carefully, she knocked on the door and, when no answer came, opened it slowly. Bruce was sitting in one of the armchairs next to the hearth, legs stretched out in front of him and arms crossed across his chest as he stared intently at the window. At the movement, he glanced her way, but his expression didn't change.

"Hey," she said, slipping in and shutting the door behind her. "What's up?"

He nodded towards the desk, his visage resembling a stone carving. With an uncertain glance in his direction, she crossed the room, and her eyes fell on the desk in question. Not exactly the _desk_ , but the item on it that had presumably put Bruce in bad humor: the society page from a newspaper from Metropolis. On the front was a slightly blurry picture, but she could make it out with ease—it was her, kissing Lex Luthor on the side of the head. The headline, at least, was clear enough:

**Luthor/Wayne Rendezvous**

_The Metropolis Prince meets with Billionaire Heiress_

She straightened up slowly, feeling as if this would be an appropriate moment for a headache to start in. She was sure that she hated the paparazzi more now than ever.

"Well?" Bruce said quietly, levelly.

"Well, what?" she asked, keeping her back to them. She felt guilty, though she couldn't imagine why—there was _nothing_ going on between her and Lex, despite what the papers seemed to be hinting toward. She'd just been visiting a friend. So why did she feel like she'd been caught with her hand in the cookie jar?

"When were you going to tell me about this?" She turned around to look at him. He hadn't changed position, his gaze fixed on her as if he planned to burn a hole through her head with his eyes.

"Never," she said, truthfully and maybe a little too flippantly—but she wanted so desperately for this sudden awkwardness to pass. "Lex is a friend, Bruce, and for some reason you're weird about that. I figured that it would just upset you if I told you."

" _Upset_ me?" he said incredulously. "So, what, you think I'd like finding out _this_ way any better?"

Jenn stared at him, a little suspiciously. "Wait a second, how _did_ you find out? Last I checked, you didn't get Metropolis newspapers."

Momentarily thrown, he said, "A friend sent it."

She perched her hands on her hips. "Which friend?"

Bruce quickly regained control of the argument, getting up from his seat. "Don't try to change the subject, Jenn."

Her eyes narrowed. "Clark Kent," she said with a slight scoff. "That man needs to learn to mind his own business." _He's a reporter,_ she reminded herself. _It's in his nature to be nosy._

"There's a _reason_ that I'm worried, and that he is, too; did you ever think of that?" Bruce asked. She could hear the slightest bit of frustration, the tiniest hint of anger in his tone. "When I tell you to do something, it's going to be for your own good. Lex is—"

"Dangerous?" she demanded, saying it at the same time he did. "What, you don't think I'm taking your warnings into account? I was careful around him, but Lex has never _once_ acted the slightest bit menacing—"

"This from the woman who's met him a grand total of _twice!_ " he interrupted. She glared.

"I might know him a little better if you didn't pull the guard dog act whenever he's around."

"I don't _want_ you to know him any better, Jenn!" he said in frustration. "The man's unsafe! What, you don't believe me?"

She stared at her irritated husband for a moment. "I believe that you honestly _think_ he's a threat," she said, after that time had elapsed. Bruce actually rolled his eyes, but she continued, scowling at him. "Maybe it hasn't occurred to you, but college was a long time ago for you two. Whatever rivalry you had there—"

"Oh, come _on!_ " Bruce said, throwing a hand up and glancing across the room before returning his eyes to her. "You think I'm going to let a few spats we had at school get in the way of my judgment?"

"Bruce, I'm a pretty good judge of character," Jenn pronounced. "I'm not getting anything overly threatening about this guy."

"You can't always trust intuition," he argued immediately, stepping closer.

"Well, what has he done, then?" she demanded, going to meet him. "Give me some tangible proof of his evil, if he's so bad!"

Bruce didn't hesitate. "Other than his utterly ruthless—to put it lightly—business techniques?"

Jenn rolled her eyes. "Come on, Bruce. You're in the business, just like I am. You know that's the norm for most people up at the top of the ladder. What else?"

He paused. "There have been rumors, flying _really_ thick, but Luthor's good at covering his tracks." She rolled her eyes, but he continued, growing a little angrier. "I _know_ the things he's done, but you should trust me instead of being stubborn and—"

"Oh, _I'm_ stubborn?" she demanded, her voice raised. "This coming from _you_?"

"You're telling me that I can't trust you, Jenn," Bruce said with a black scowl.

"Oh, what are you going to do, chain me to your bedpost?" she snapped, without really thinking.

That gave both of them pause for a moment or two as they stared at each other. Jenn lifted an eyebrow, and she could swear that she spotted the faintest look of startled amusement, mingled with interest, in Bruce's gaze before he smoothed it over.

"Well," he said silkily, stepping forward so they stood toe-to-toe, "If I did, do you think it might keep you out of trouble?"

 _Distraction. Distraction!_ Luckily, Jenn was just mad enough so that she wasn't sidetracked by the sudden lowness in his tone. She had no doubt he was just as angry as she was by now. "I wasn't _in_ trouble in the first place."

"That's debatable," he said, his tone heated. "I think you're lucky to have escaped two meetings with Lex Luthor unscathed."

" _I_ think that I want to be his friend."

She caught sight of another scowl, this the most unfriendly yet. "Now you're just making me suspicious."

She took a step back, distancing herself from him, as his words slammed into her. She crossed her arms firmly. "What, _exactly,_ is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Simply that there's no plausible reason for someone to want to be _just friends_ with Luthor, especially a woman."

She stared at him, trying not to let her jaw drop. "Excuse me, but what are you implying?"

His face was blank at this point, his expression providing not the slightest information at this point. "I don't know, Jenn. Why don't you tell me?"

She clenched her fists and reminded herself vehemently that she'd promised herself never to hit him, about a month before their wedding. He didn't know about the vow, but she fully intended to keep it. "Bruce, I _sincerely_ hope that you're not thinking I'd be unfaithful to you."

"I don't know, Jenn," he repeated, a bit of bitterness sweeping into his voice. "I really can't think of another reason for you to be so adamant about spending time with him."

Deep down, she knew that the hurtful words were only his bitterness and anger at being deceived, but she couldn't make herself ignore them. Only the fact that she didn't make it a habit of crying saved her eyes from a wash of tears. "I really can't believe you're saying this. _You._ I have not _once_ brought up your lifestyle before our marriage, yet here you are—"

"You're bringing it up now, dear," he said, his eyes flashing. The way the endearment dripped sarcastically from his mouth stung more than she thought possible.

"Bruce, you're my _husband!_ " she exclaimed piercingly.

"As such, you should have obeyed me," he pointed out, his voice almost a growl by now. "You broke _that_ promise; I don't know what else you might have done behind my back."

She stared at him for almost a full minute, not quite able to comprehend. Finally, she shook her head, turning away. She was taking the weak way out of this. "I can't be here right now," she said quietly, heading for the door.

She half-expected him to call out some reference to her cowardice as she left, but there was only stony silence in her wake. She shut the doors behind her and went upstairs.

* * *

When Jenn had said 'can't be here right now,' she'd meant it. Despite the size of the house and the ease with which she could have avoided Bruce within it, every time she turned a corner she saw evidence of him, which reminded her of their painful fight. She had to leave, only temporarily, but had to get out nonetheless.

After a moment's thought, she knew what to do. Her father had owned a penthouse, a luxurious thing that he never used but always kept sparkling clean for show—and now, of course, the penthouse was hers. She figured she could spend a few days there and cool off a bit.

She was in the midst of packing up the things she'd need when the door creaked slowly open, and she looked up, heart in her throat, terrified that it might be Bruce. She should have known better, though; it was only Alfred, and he quietly entered the room.

"Might I ask what you're doing, Madam?"

She couldn't hear any alarm in his tone, but knew that he must be at least slightly worried. After all, she and Bruce had just fought and now she was packing her bags. She looked up at him. "I just need to get out for a little while, Alfred," she said, instilling a false sense of cheerfulness in her words. "Take some time to think."

"I see." Alfred studied her for a moment, and then ventured, "Madam, if I may offer some advice?"

She looked up at him for a moment and saw comprehension in his eyes. Of course. The man probably knew the exact details of the argument; not from eavesdropping, but through common sense. He knew of Bruce and Jenn's varying opinions of Lex Luthor and had probably seen the article before Bruce did. Plunking down on the bed with a slight sigh, she said, "I'd actually appreciate it very much."

"Well," Alfred said, sitting down beside her. "Not so much advice as a bit of insight into Master Bruce. You know him well, Madam, but I know him better—and I know that he only gets in that vindictive mood you've just experienced when dealing with someone he really, truly cares about. I know you've seen that he's an extremely difficult man to quarrel with, but despite that, he still has a temper. Just because you've managed to set it off, though, doesn't mean that it's the end of the world."

Jenn rubbed at her nose, feeling a sudden attack of her sinuses as her eyes heated. "He's been that way to you?"

"Numerous times, Madam," Alfred said, with a rueful chuckle. "But only because he was utterly comfortable with me; knew that I wouldn't leave him, like so many in his life."

She sniffed. "I would never really leave him, Alfred."

"I know that, Madam." He patted her hand kindly. "I know. But, as you've doubtless realized, there comes a time when all of us need a break."

She lifted an eyebrow. "Even you?"

"Especially me." Alfred smiled. "But I get days off. You don't."

She nodded, digesting this for a moment. After a moment, she sighed and stood up, gathering the large bag she'd packed. "If he asks, let him know I'll be back. And…" She swallowed and spoke past the knot in her throat. "If something happens, I'm at the penthouse." She glanced at the door. "Take care of him, Alfred."

"Of course, Madam. As for you, think things over—but try to hurry home. I fear that the mood in the manor will be quite grim without you about to make Master Bruce laugh at himself."

She managed a smile, and bent to kiss Alfred on the cheek. Then, she was gone.

**Chapter Ten**

"Excuse me, Jenn… you _what?_ " The crisp British tone reached her clearly, though Jenn was separated from Lauren by an entire ocean and six hours' time difference.

"Don't sound so horrified. I'm only waiting in the penthouse for a little while… until things cool off." Jenn inevitably felt guilty at her friend's tone, but she'd known the risk she was taking when she first called up the girl.

"Jenn, don't take this personally, but the fact that you're _moving out_ really worries me."

Jenn sighed, a little irately. "I'm not moving out, Lauren! I'm getting away so I can clear my head; how many times to I have to _say_ that?"

There was a brief pause, and then Lauren said, "Want me to simplify things?"

"No," said Jenn, knowing that her friend would have it out anyway. Of course, the irrepressible Lauren did.

"You're both wrong, in _very_ big ways." She paused, as if expecting to be interrupted, but her American friend was silent, so she continued. " _You_ , my dear friend, should have obeyed your husband. I know it's not in the modern-independent-feminist-bullshit dogma—"

"Careful, you'll offend someone," Jenn said, vaguely amused.

"—shush, I'm making a point—but we've always been traditional. It's in our system of beliefs, luv—if you trust the man enough to _marry_ him, you need to trust him enough to submit to his judgment." Jenn was quiet, ruminating over this. Lauren took her friend's silence as an invitation to continue. " _However_ , Bruce was also wrong. He should have _never_ questioned or implied the things that he did. It's the same standard—if he trusts you enough to marry you, he should trust you to be faithful—and I think he _does._ He was just lashing out irrationally."

"Lauren," Jenn said, sitting up from her reclining position on the couch. "I _really_ think I'm right. I think Lex has a bad reputation because of his father and past, and that keeps people away from him. He seems… lonely."

"That bleeding heart of yours," Lauren said, a little fondly. "It's a good characteristic to a point, but it's getting in the way of your marriage. You're going to have to decide what's important to you, and I think I know what that is."

Jenn gave a long, meditative sigh. "Yes, you do. I'm just… really hurt right now. I need to think."

"So you've said," Lauren sighed. "Just don't get too wrapped up in your hurt feelings and self-righteousness. The world's already divorce-laden enough."

"I'm not going to _divorce_ him!" Jenn said, a little startled. "Come on, Lauren. This is just a bump on the road."

"I know, girl. I know _you_."

"Mm." Lauren paused, and then said, "You know, being an unmarried woman, you certainly seem to have marriage figured out."

Lauren laughed. "It's all _theory,_ dear. No one says I'm going to end up putting it into practice."

Jenn chuckled. "Thanks, Lauren. You've given me some stuff to think about."

"Not that you need it, right?" the Brit asked humorously. "Right, I've got to go. I'll talk to you in a bit."

"All right. Later."

The two hung up, and Jenn laid back down and set the phone on her stomach. Lauren echoed her conscience almost identically; she knew that she'd done wrong. The only thing that kept her from swallowing her pride was that Bruce had been wrong, too. What he'd said still hurt her. She figured that he didn't mean it, but the fact that he'd actually say it… she sighed. She could already tell that this week was going to be awful.

The phone rang, making her jump. She stared at it in bemusement for a moment, and then picked it up, figuring that it was Lauren calling back for some reason. Other than that, only a few people knew this number.

"Hello?"

There was a long silence, and she repeated herself once or twice. Finally, a voice answered her, a little raspy, husky and male. "You did the right thing."

"I think you have the wrong number," she said, sitting up again.

"This is Jennifer Redgrove, is it not?"

That gave her pause, but only for a moment or two. " _Wayne_ ," she corrected. "Jenn Wayne."

"And how long do you plan on retaining that surname?"

 _Okay, now I'm getting pissed._ She didn't need a skeptic heckling her at this point. "Until I die. Who is this?"

"Someone who's trying to help you."

"This isn't funny."

"It isn't supposed to be. I know you, Jennifer. I know of your individuality, and I know that marriage to a man like Bruce Wayne is smothering you."

Jenn wasn't going to put up with this anymore. She was already irate and had _enough_ on her mind without someone deciding to play games with her. She subtracted the phone from her ear and pressed the button that would disconnect the call, chucking it into a soft armchair across the room.

No one called back, for which she was relieved. She leaned back and shut her eyes, knowing that it was only early afternoon—but she was already exhausted.

* * *

Bruce hadn't left for the night yet, and so Alfred lingered only a moment or two before going down to the cave. The butler was playing with fire; he knew this much. An irate Bruce was something that he wouldn't wish on anyone—but he'd known the man since he was a mere boy. If anyone could handle it, he could.

"What?" Bruce's voice was harsh as he realized that Alfred was standing behind him. He was almost fully dressed in the armor, missing only the gauntlets and cowl. Alfred reflected, not for the first time, that such an outfit could hardly be comfortable. Oh, the prices the young Wayne paid for his regulation of justice.

"Perhaps this is a bad time, sir—"

"It really is, Alfred."

"—but," said Alfred, steadily ignoring him, "I was wondering if you've heard from Madam Jenn since your falling-out earlier this afternoon."

Bruce reached for the left gauntlet, fitting it onto his wrist. "No," he said shortly. "We haven't spoken."

"In that case, she wished for me to relay to you that she was leaving for a few days and _would_ be back in time." Bruce paused in his motions at that, looking up, but still not turning to face Alfred. After a moment, he spoke, and his voice was almost _sulky._ Alfred had to remind himself, in times like these, that Bruce had once been a child and was fully capable of reverting to some of his more childish attitudes. After all, he was used to getting his way.

"She's acting like a baby."

"If I may be so bold, sir, I believe that makes two of you."

Bruce whirled on Alfred then, fixing him with a disbelieving glare. "You're siding with _her_?"

"I didn't say _that_ , Master Wayne. In fact, the position I take on this argument is a cool neutral. I think that both of you are in the wrong and need to reconcile before one of you does something you'll regret. _If you haven't already_ ," he said pointedly.

Bruce stared at him for a minute, and then turned back and reached for several of the gadgets he routinely had to replace, fitting them onto his belt. "If you don't mind, Alfred," he said coldly, "I think this should probably be kept between man and wife." He reached for his cowl, but the butler fired off one last parting shot before leaving.

"Well, sir, it doesn't seem like you're doing much about resolving it _yourself_."

Bruce scowled, but when he turned again, Alfred was gone. He turned back and jammed the cowl onto his head. He almost pitied the criminals foolish enough to walk the streets tonight—he had anger aplenty to fuel his strikes this evening, and he had no doubt that they would feel the brunt of it. Cape billowing blackly behind him, he headed to the Tumbler.

* * *

Gotham was split into several areas, all of which were more or less touched by crime. A good part of it was industrial, another big hunk was commercial, and there was a smaller, residential area, composed mainly of tall, ugly apartment buildings.

That, of course, was in the heart of Gotham. On the outskirts, though, the wealthy people constructed their homes. Big, sprawling neighborhoods were there, with big, sprawling houses, almost every single one gated and guarded by rent-a-cops.

One of these houses was alive with action early in the evening. In the lower levels, people moved in and out of the house as they laughed, drank, and trysted, gambling away their health for a few hours of fun.

Further up, though, on the third level, frivolity fell away. Even the décor was stricter, and the small cluster of men that met upstairs were stern-faced and down-to-business. They were all fairly big, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in impeccably-tailored suits. Most were standing, hands clasped behind their backs, but one or two were seated. The most prominent of these was sitting behind an elaborately-carved mahogany desk, fists clenched. Another man stood behind his chair, watching them all. The man at the desk spoke carefully, with a quiet menace that each of the other men had learned not to ignore.

"The time has come," he said, without a hint of pretentious dramatic flair. "This city needs to be taken in hand. Since Falcone's been bottled up in the loony bin, there've been amateur crime lords springing up like weeds, but Batman prunes them as they come. That's good for us to a point, but in order to take over the city, we want him out of the way."

He stopped, and poured himself a drink from the decanter on the desk, then leaned back in his chair and studied the dark liquid, swirling it around in his glass. Eventually, he spoke again. "Any ideas on how to remove the Bat from the equation?" He set the glass down and pulled a bottle from the desk, a prescription. It was for depression; he had to take two every six hours. He didn't know if they were safe to take with alcohol and didn't care. He shook two pills out and bolted them back without blinking, and then took a sip from his glass, then looked around at his men, who didn't seem at all surprised by the ritual.

One of them spoke up readily enough. "Set a trap. Let one of us perform some random act of crime, with backup just around the corner. I've seen Batman at work—he can't resist a damsel in distress. It shouldn't be hard."

" _Shouldn't_ be," joined in another man, his voice low, "but _is._ How many men have you seen that thing go up against?"

The previous man shrugged. "Two or three, I think."

"Yeah. Well, I stood by and watched a few weeks ago as he _totaled_ eight guys at once. _Eight._ And these weren't your stupid, know-nothin' thugs, either. They knew their stuff, and they _still_ got schooled. So, good idea, but I don't think a trap with five or six guys is going to cut it. In fact, he's so good I'm not even sure if he's _human._ "

The man sitting behind the desk suddenly chuckled. The debating underlings turned towards him, and he took a leisurely sip of the fiery liquid in his glass before setting it down on the desk and lacing his fingers together. "He's human, all right—somewhere beneath that façade of his. He's human, and he doubtless has human weaknesses—mortality, people and things that he cares about. What we have to do," and here he extended an index finger as if pointing at a phantasm Batman that only he could see, "is peel away the costume. Find the man beneath the mask, to be excessively cliché."

He looked up, eyes bright with cunning and a hint of madness. "Once we do that, gentlemen, this human will be laid bare. He can be eliminated where the symbol, the vigilante _Batman_ cannot. With him gone, the city will be ripe for the picking."

This made sense to the men listening, and there were various murmurs of agreement and nods around the room. The man at the desk turned his head to look at the man behind him out of the corner of his eye. "What do you think, Christopher?"

There was a short, tense silence. Everyone privileged enough to be in the leader's presence knew that his brother was his most trusted consultant. He was powerful and cunning enough without him, but lacked determination. Christopher looked around slowly, and then said, "What are we waiting for? Let's get to work, boys."

* * *

Jenn was having a hellish pair of days, and what made it worse was that she felt like she deserved it.

It had been two nights since she'd left the manor to live for a bit on her own, and each night she'd spent tossing and turning in the cold bed, unable to sleep with the knowledge that Bruce _wouldn't_ be coming in midway through the night. This sleeplessness was compounded by the phone ringing every couple of hours—but when she picked up, there was no one there.

She had her suspicions, but it was only on the second morning that they were confirmed. She'd been getting ready to go to work when the phone rang again, and she picked it up and barked an irritable greeting into the speaker.

"A little moody, aren't we?" It was that raspy male voice that she'd first heard a few days earlier. She was tempted to just hang up then and there, but curiosity and the need to rant at someone overcame her.

"You would be too, if someone was keeping you up all night with their phone calls."

"Touché, but I doubt you were getting much sleep, anyway."

That stopped her cold. "Have you been _watching_ me?"

"Sometimes." His voice was nonchalant. "Not always; I _do_ respect your privacy to some extent." She felt a cold chill prickle its way down her spine and spread out to her fingertips and toes.

"So… you're my stalker."

"I much prefer the term 'savior,' if you don't mind."

"Are you _serious_?" she asked, half of her wanting to laugh, the other desperately wanting to break down in tears. She didn't feel like she could handle this, not away from Bruce as she was. She was more and more becoming conscious of the fact that Bruce had replaced Lauren as her strength, her strength to get through the days and still be a decent person at the end of them, and without him things got worse and worse.

"Perfectly serious," he said, his tone lighthearted, free. "You need saving, Jennifer, you know that? First it was your father that you needed to be rescued from, and I don't really blame you for attaching yourself to the first knight in shining armor that showed up. But, really, _Bruce_ _Wayne_? Surely you heard stories about him."

"Plenty. I didn't believe a word," she lied.

"You should have, because now you need saving again, this time from him. He's going to try and keep you locked up in that dreary mausoleum of his—but you deserve better. You deserve the world."

"Go to hell," she snapped, suddenly unwilling to speak to this man anymore, and hung up. He didn't call back.

At work, in the privacy of her office, Edward noticed her pale face and the dark shadows beneath her eyes, and looked at her shrewdly. "Separation wearing on you?"

"What?" Jenn asked, a bit confused.

"The gossip columns are all on it. Apparently, you and Bruce had a tiff and you've moved out. I never pay attention to those rags; they're full of lies." Jenn's countenance must have been guilty, because he slowly asked, "They _are_ lies, right?"

"It's my business, Edward," she said, finding that her voice was cold and hating herself for it. "Stay out of it."

Edward was unyielding. "It might be your business, Jenn, but sometimes a disinterested party needs to come in and give someone a swift kick in the pants. Is it you or him?"

"Both," she answered, rather unwillingly.

"Divorce-worthy?"

"No!" she said, feeling her temper flare. "Why does _everyone_ automatically suppose that?" she demanded, glaring hotly at him.

"Hey, no need to jump all over me," he said mildly, and she made a tangible effort to let go of the anger. Lack of sleep tended to stretch her emotions to the breaking point. "But when someone _moves out,_ as I'm supposing you did, it generally means divorce is imminent."

"It's just a break," Jenn said. "I'm heading back in a day or two."

Edward rested an unexpected hand on her shoulder. "Jenn, darlin', don't let this drag on. It'll get more and more painful, and if you don't want this to end in divorce, the best thing to do is to nip it in the bud. You say you're both wrong; that means you've played a part in it. What you should do is apologize for your part of it, and he should follow quickly enough." When she didn't respond, he said gently, "Men don't like to apologize, at least not first. He's probably just too proud to admit he's wrong, but hearing you say it should soften him up."

She looked up at him then, a wry smile twisting her lips. "You're actually trying to help me and _Bruce_?" The accented word clearly implied the question _You hate him and you know it; why are you helping him?_

Edward shrugged. "I care about you, Jenn. I don't want to see you shattered and hurt, especially not at so young an age. And you seem to care about this guy, truly care about him—and you're not a bad judge of character, so I'm left wondering if it's just the blindness of partiality, or if there really is something about him."

Jenn sighed; shut her eyes for a moment. "There _is_ something about him. I don't think you can see it, though." She straightened up and opened her eyes again, crossing her arms. "You're probably right. This should end soon." She thought for a long minute, and then said, "Let me have one more day, and then I'm going back."

"Good girl."

Back at the penthouse that night, Jenn read until her eyes drooped, and then tried to go to bed, but however tired she had been minutes earlier, she was once again unable to drift off. She spent several hours trying to go to sleep and feeling increasingly frustrated as the numbers of the clock sped past.

Finally she sat up and flung a pillow at the wall, and then, out of the corner of her eye, caught sight of the edge of a shadow at the window. Fear gripped her as she thought of the caller, but quickly sense edged it from her mind. It wasn't exactly _easy_ to get that high up on the building—she had the balcony, but that was pretty much only accessible through the penthouse.

Another thought struck her, this one making prodigiously more sense. It just so happened that she knew someone to whom rooftops were a home away from home. She hadn't seen him in days—was it so inconceivable that he might come to check on her?

She went to the window and opened it. She saw nothing except random shadows thrown at her window from the lights of the city, and sighed, leaning on the frame for a moment and looking out over the rooftops, seeking in vain for a glimpse of that black flash of movement, the symbol at work. She saw nothing.

She lingered for a few moments, but eventually shut the window, going back to bed.

And Batman, posed behind a parapet, released a breath.

It had been foolish of him—extremely so. He knew she was all right, but for some reason couldn't rid himself of a nagging feeling that all was not well. He finally decided that taking a five-minute detour to ease his mind was worth the setback.

Now that he'd actually visited the penthouse, checked the windows and caught a glimpse of her, he was left with yet another uncomfortable feeling. This one was smug, goading him. It said that perhaps, just perhaps, Bruce and Batman weren't as separate as they thought they were. After all, one's cares were bleeding into the other's work.

Batman tried irritably to shake off the feeling, but it didn't work very well. Spotting a nearby rooftop, this one lower, he leapt from the parapet and deployed the cape, which acted as a sort of parachute, holding him aloft till he was able to land. From the second rooftop, he worked his way down to a third, then lower and lower till at the normal level again—two or three stories.

He lingered for fifteen more minutes, but the city was surprisingly languid tonight. He hadn't had much to do, which frustrated him beyond measure—he certainly had temper to work out on unfortunate criminals. Finally, he headed back to the Tumbler, preparing to get in and go home when another feeling arose and settled in the pit of his stomach.

This was another vague sense that all was not right, and Batman clearly rarely ignored intuition. Before getting in, he searched the exterior of the car quickly.

And found a tracking bug.

He stared at it for a moment, his mind electric with movement, and then slowly, it slipped from his gloved fingers into a nearby puddle.

He wasted no time in searching the Tumbler thoroughly, twice more. He found one more, this on the rim of the front right tire. So. Someone was trying to figure him out. His mind jumped to Meredith Fille, but while he would never underestimate a person, he didn't think she would be able to get ahold of the technology.

Well, one thing was certain. He would have to be much more careful from now on—and he couldn't keep performing these searches. There had to be something else that would work.

He would figure something out. After all, he had to protect his identity. That was almost as important as his work itself.

**Chapter Eleven**

" _He discovered the bug and discarded it. We're no closer now to knowing who he is than before."_

" _Actually, we've taken a step or two back. Now, he_ knows _someone is curious about him."_

" _Well, we can always take more drastic measures, Henry."_

" _What measures, exactly, are you thinking of, Christopher?"_

* * *

"Well, well." Lucius Fox stood up as Bruce Wayne entered his office, a slight smile starting on his clever, aged face. "Look what the cat dragged in."

Bruce shook the older man's hand with a slight smile. "Lucius—good to see you again."

"Yes, indeed. You've been quite a stranger these past few months—leading me to suspect that the only reason I'm seeing you right now is that you need something. Sit down."

"Actually, I do," Bruce answered, taking the offered seat and training his eyes on Lucius as the man went to sit behind his desk. "A piece of technology, actually, if I could get my hands on the kind of thing I'm thinking of."

"Bruce," said Lucius, half facetiously, "you know I'm not the head of that department anymore."

"As I remember, I was the one who promoted you," said Bruce with a smile.

"Yes, sir. But I still have some authority over that branch—it's near dead, you know. Merged with Archives, but I'm certain that there are plenty of things left for us to look into. So why don't you tell me what you need?"

Bruce laced his fingers together, leaning back slightly as he decided on how to word his thoughts. Finally, he spoke, frankly as he knew Lucius would appreciate. "I've had some trouble with… tags. Curious people, I suppose you can say. I'm looking for a way to disable their bugs and trackers before they get somewhere where they can do harm."

Lucius thought for a long moment. He scratched his temple and shook his head after a moment. "It's been a long time, Bruce. I don't know if my memory's quite accurate, but I think I have something that might help. Come down to Archives with me and we'll see."

Five minutes later, the two men were down in the storage room where the prototypes held reign, and Lucius coded in a password on a drawer that hissed and clicked open. The older man picked up something that looked like a mutilated pen out of it. "It emits an electromagnetic pulse, if I'm not mistaken. Disables electronics and battery-operated objects within a three-mile radius—doesn't break them, mind you, but certainly renders them useless until it's switched off."

Bruce reached for it, lifting an eyebrow at Lucius as he did so. "And what use was it meant to serve in the army?"

Lucius smiled slightly. "Well, imagine the opportunities. Enemies' computers just stop working, their radars screw up, and they don't know anything but that they're about to be attacked. It'd definitely give an advantage."

"So why isn't it marketed? It doesn't look that expensive."

"It's not, but turns out that it disabled _our_ electronics, too, outside of a twenty-foot radius of safety surrounding the thing. They went back to the drawing board _real_ quick." He glanced up at Bruce. "I wouldn't recommend turning it on during the day, with the cell phones and televisions that need to be on in the house, but at night, when everyone's asleep…" He shook his head. "It should keep bugs from working until you have the time to run a scan with a sophisticated bugger." He picked a case from the drawer and gave it to Bruce, who smiled.

"Lucius, you're a lifesaver."

"Oh, don't I know it," said Lucius with a wise smile. They shook hands, and then Bruce let him get back to work.

* * *

Jenn's next conversation with the man who was stalking her occurred the next morning. He called and she picked up, knowing very well who it would be. "You don't have anything better to do than call me?" she asked irritably.

"Not particularly," came his voice, rather cheerful considering her less-than-cordial greeting. "How are you this morning, Jennifer?"

"What's your name?" she asked, batting his question to the side. There was a moment's pause.

"Well," he said slowly, "if you want, you can call me Malachi."

"But that's not your real name."

"Unfortunately, no." Jenn sighed and leaned back in her chair, putting a hand to her forehead. Now she had to deal with paranoia on top of everything else… just _great._

"Why won't you tell me your name?"

"Because I don't trust you just now. You don't _see._ You're still in love with that man, and will be until I enlighten you beyond his narrow means."

Jenn didn't bother to hide her scoff. "Malachi, what makes you think you know better than _anyone_ else what's best for me?"

"Because I know you, Jennifer," he said, sounding surprised that she even had to ask.

"No, you don't," she said firmly. "I've never met you in my life—I'd recognize your voice—and you _don't_ know me. You know what the magazines say. You _think_ you know what goes on with me because you've been _watching_ me… but you don't know anything."

Right around the time she said this, a harsh fear struck at her. He claimed to have been watching her… which would involve a fair amount of watching Bruce, as well. Could he possibly know Bruce's secret? She quelled the fear within her with no small amount of difficulty, telling herself that she'd cross that bridge when she came to it.

"I guess… I don't know you in _every_ sense," he said slowly. "But the way a person acts while in view of the public eye reflects the person's actions _out_ of it. You can't claim to be someone utterly different than the persona you present to the public; that's near impossible."

Jenn smiled at that, thinking of Bruce, but it quickly disappeared from her face, and she replied levelly. "Maybe I'm not. But you don't know me. I think you have a sort of preconceived notion of me—an idea—while really, I'm much different from whatever you have in mind."

Malachi laughed merrily. "Why, Jennifer, are you trying to reason with me?" She was beginning to hate her full name more and more—and she hated the way he said it so often, like it was a delight coming off his tongue.

She paused for a beat. "Probably."

He laughed harder, and there was something distinctly unsettling about it, an unhinged note. "While I believe myself to be a bit more enlightened than your average person, I must maintain that there is no reasoning with an insane person." There was a click, and the conversation ended.

Jenn turned off the phone with shaking hands. Her perception had changed considerably by now. At first, she figured that this was an infatuation, not much harm in it. Something about that laugh, though, had rattled her.

Now, more than ever, there seemed to be a distinct possibility that she was dealing with a crazy person.

She rose, going to the bedroom where her bag was. She rummaged through it for a minute and then emerged with a fold-up knife. She clicked out the blade and softly ran her finger over the edge. It was strong and sharp, given to her by Bruce last Christmas. He'd remarked that, Batman or not, it was dangerous to walk around Gotham without some form of defense. As of yet, she hadn't had reason to use it, but she now suspected that that would change soon. She stuck it in her back pocket.

A nagging whisper crept along the forefront of her mind. It said that she should tell Bruce or even Alfred about what was going on. She shook her head, pacifying the voice by telling herself that if things got worse, she would.

The penthouse suddenly seemed suffocating. Jenn decided that she needed to get away for a time, and she decided on the stables. She hadn't ridden in months. Her mind made up, she grabbed the keys to the beat-up old truck she was still driving and headed out the doors.

Ryan had been forgiven in full for his betrayal of her. She'd always understood that he'd had her bet interest at heart, and he was very apologetic when he realized what had happened. His exact words were: "I'm an idiot. Man… got taken for a turn by a crazy man and didn't do nothin' about it. I am a moron."

Jenn had laughed it off, albeit a little shakily, and offered him a new, better job—managing the stables. The previous manager had fled abruptly last year, spooked by Alek's death—she suspected it was because he'd been in on some of Alek's schemes, though perhaps not of the Widow variety, and was afraid he'd come under fire now that Alek's protection was removed.

Ryan had smiled in his way and refused. "Naw, Jenn," he said. "I'm not a manager. You should see me try to tell people what to do."

"You manage it fine with me," she'd teased.

"Yeah, right. No, I'm good as a stable hand, but I do want to ask for one thing."

"Shoot."

"Let me have a say in who you pick as a replacement. I don't want to work under a jackass, or worse, a jackass who doesn't know anythin' about horses."

Jenn laughed. "I don't think that's going to be a problem. I need a second opinion anyway."

With Ryan's help, she'd decided to hire Lynn, a smart young woman that had been born and raised around horses. The stables were in good hands.

On the way over, Jenn kept a cautious lookout for anyone who might be following her, but she was unable to pick out anyone in particular. She arrived at the stable almost more stressed out and frustrated than she'd been beforehand. She got out of her truck, pocketed the keys, and stalked up the gravel drive, taking in her surroundings.

There were lessons going on with several preteen and teenage girls in and out of the ring. She past a cluster of them standing at the fence: "Kari had better keep her heels down!" "Did you see Mr. Rowe today? Oh. My. Gosh. He was mucking out a stall with no shirt on. I almost fainted." "Tina, you never did tell me how you got that scrape on your face a few weeks ago."

She was the subject of a few stares when she entered the barn, but, accustomed to it, she politely asked a groom where Ryan was. He was out behind the stables, helping unload hay bales. He glanced up as she approached and offered a smile. "Trouble in paradise?"

"Why does everyone keep asking that?" she demanded. She looked over the hay bales, but decided that they'd be too awkward for her to try to help with. She'd leave it to him; his arms were longer.

"Well, you're splashed over the newspapers. Don't tell me that you haven't been harassed by the press, girl, just don't."

"They don't know where I _am_ ," Jenn told him. "They can basically only predict that I'm going to be at work sometimes, and they can't stake out the building, because we've got security to chase them off. So I haven't been bothered so much."

"Haven't had a problem with them scaling the fence of that big ol' estate?"

She laughed. "I'm not sure that they're so determined that they're willing to get arrested, and I _know_ Alfred would call the police if anyone trespassed, so… no."

"You should get a bodyguard."

"Yeah, right," she snorted. "I'd rather _not_ be tailed everywhere I go. I'm a private person."

"Don't I know it. Prying information from you is like getting a pearl from a clam." He set down a heavy bale of hay and stopped to rest, wiping his forehead on the back of his forearm. "So, why are you here, Jenn?"

"Don't worry, I'm not delivering some notice that you're shutting down. I'm just visiting."

"Thankful for that. Lynn's doin' a good job taking care of this place; it'd be a shame to put us out of jobs."

"Huh." Jenn looked away and realized suddenly that she wished she could spend more time here. There was something infinitely comforting about the smell of horses and the surroundings that accompanied it. "Well, are any horses available today?"

"Ah, so the real reason for your visit comes out," said Ryan mischievously. She smiled sheepishly, and he paused to think. "Firebird's free, I think. If you want to risk taking the Cactus Kid out, you can."

Jenn laughed. "You must think I'm crazy, offering me Cactus Kid. I don't really want to get thrown today."

"Firebird it is, then. Scat, I've got work to do."

"Yes sir," she said, and turned to go, but on second thought, looked back at him. "You might want to exercise some discretion when going shirtless around those teenagers. I think if you do it again, they might drown in their own drool. Man, if you were a pedophile, you'd be in paradise."

Ryan laughed, and chucked a clump of hay at her, some of which got lodged in her hair. "Go on, get out of here!"

"Fine!" she said, and ducked away.

Firebird was a gentle young mare, named for the flaming red color of her pelt. It didn't take Jenn long to get her tacked up and ready to go, and soon they were on the trails.

She resisted temptation (or just plain longing) and kept Firebird's head pointed _away_ from the manor. Eventually, she let herself relax. Firebird had a smooth, rocking gait that was soothing, and she felt the stress of the past few days slide from her shoulders. She let herself get off-guard.

So, when Firebird unexpectedly shied and bucked, Jenn was literally thrown. She landed hard on her shoulder as the mare's piercing cry hit her ears, but despite her uncharacteristic show of unsteadiness, Firebird seemed to have settled down enough not to bolt.

Jenn rolled onto her back, wincing. The mare's whites were showing and her teeth were bared, but as Jenn sat up and looked around, she was unable to find what had spooked her.

 _Ow_. Her shoulder hurt. Carefully, she got to her feet and went to the horse. "Hey, girl; what's wrong?" Firebird snorted and threw her head back. Jenn took hold of her throatlatch, holding her head still. "Steady," she said, keeping her voice level and smooth. "Easy, girl. Come on; let's get out of here." She took the reins and moved them over the mare's head and started to move forward. Firebird refused to go. She tugged slightly. "Come on, girl."

The horse laid her ears flat. Jenn winced as another ache shot through her shoulder, and paused to think. Suddenly, Lauren's voice was strong in her mind. _Oh, Jenn, stop being an idiot. She's_ not _going to want to go straight into what's scaring the life out of her. Go_ back.

Jenn nodded and turned. Firebird followed almost eagerly. As soon as they got to a suitable stump, Jenn swing back onto the horse's back, and they started back for the stables.

 _Thirty-two,_ she reflected wryly as she rode. That was the number of times she'd fallen in her horse career. Lauren always said, _7 falls and you're smarter, 21 falls and you're a rider, and the next 100 are just for the heck of it._ Her shoulder gave a painful twinge, and she made a note to get Ryan to look at it.

He was back at the stables, giving some pointers to the girls—thankfully with his shirt on, or Jenn suspected they'd all simultaneously fall from their mounts. He turned away when she approached, earning Jenn a few glares. "You're back early."

"I wasn't paying attention and she spooked," she admitted, swinging down. "I fell."

"You all right?" he questioned, sounding not particularly concerned. She understood; falls happened all the time.

She worked the shoulder a little. "I think so. I landed pretty hard right here."

"Let me see." She allowed him to probe, but when a bolt of pain shot down her arm she jerked it back.

"Hey, take off! That hurt."

"Mild sprain," he said dismissively. She believed him—he wasn't a doctor, but had a lot of experience with injuries. "Ice is the best thing for that."

She nodded. "All right. I'll take care of Firebird and then I should get going." As she turned back to the stables, though, she couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding. She wasn't one to believe in bad omens, but with the way things were going… she wasn't as sure anymore.

* * *

That evening, Jenn was to attend a Police Ball. It was a charity event to raise money for the police of Gotham City, with those in the higher ranks of the Gotham PD attending, and there was no way she was going to miss it. She wanted people to see where her loyalties stood.

Despite her determination to go, she decided that, if anything was going to put her off going, it would be her shoulder. In the hours between the fall and the event, the pain only increased, and she might have been worried that it was a fracture, but she'd sprained a shoulder before, coincidentally by falling off a horse. The pain was the same.

She didn't particularly like evening gowns. Nowadays, they seemed to just be pieces of cloth glued to random places on the body. She generally managed to find both pretty and modest clothing, though, when she was unable to get out of formal wear.

Tonight's gown was no exception. She'd gone for standard black, a long velvet gown of a simple cut that reached her toes. It had no extra frills or trains; its only concession was the design from above the bust to the shoulders, a screen-like material interwoven with patterns of black. The sleeves were short, and she finished up with a black wrap and strappy heels.

Alfred showed up to driver her in the Rolls Royce, since, always a step ahead of things, he'd contacted her the day before and informed her that, while her truck was fine for rattling around town in, it would be unseemly for her to show up at a social function in it and he'd be there at six. There wasn't much to say to that, and she missed him anyway, so she didn't put up a fight.

The thought of seeing him was all-too welcome. As a result, she was in a good mood when she met Alfred in the lobby and hugged him gently. "It's so good to see you!"

"You haven't been gone _all_ that long," he remarked, "but it's good to see you, too." He stepped back and looked her over. "You look lovely, Madam."

"Thank you."

Before long, they were driving across town. Jenn was silent for a while, thinking, but eventually straightened up. "How is he?"

Alfred didn't need to ask who she was talking about. "Grumpy," he answered. "Sulky. I believe you're the one person capable of making him act like a child."

"I'm not much better," she sighed, settling back and looking at the dark city. "Everyone thinks we're getting divorced."

She caught a glimpse of Alfred's amused gaze in the rearview mirror. "Oh, I doubt that very much. I doubt he'd let you have a divorce even if you wanted one."

"Oh, _that_ makes me feel better," she said with a laugh. "But I guess I asked for the rumors, leaving like I did. I'm coming back tomorrow, before you ask."

"Figured everything out?"

"Not exactly," she admitted, "but I'm tired of being away from home. I figure I should face this."

"Very good, Madam."

They spent the rest of the ride in relative silence, each content with sorting out their thoughts. Alfred dropped Jenn off and promised to be back within an hour or two.

She knew there would be a certain amount of press covering the event, but she didn't expect to be accosted by a reporter the second she walked in the door. He had an extremely determined glint in his eye as he shoved a tape recorder into her face. "Mrs. Wayne! Curtis Boswell, Gotham Tribune. What do you have to say about the reports that you and Bruce are separated?"

She stepped back in slight surprise, but recovered quickly and made herself smile. "Tell you what, you should ask my husband. I'm sure he'd have a few interesting things to say to that."

"Where is he?" Boswell asked, looking around assertively.

"He had to work tonight," she said, already drifting off. "Maybe you can catch him next time."

"Mrs. Wayne!" Boswell called, but she'd managed to escape into the crowd.

She breathed a sigh of relief as she ducked behind two people, escaping from Boswell successfully and then looked to see if she recognized any other reporters that might pose a potential threat. She didn't see any others, at least not that she recognized, and let herself loosen up a bit.

She shouldn't have let her guard down. Mrs. Landlass pounced the second she was relaxed. "Jenn, darling!" she purred, grabbing her arm and planting a couple of air-kisses on her cheek before Jenn quite knew what was happening. " _Very_ smart move, leaving Bruce like you did."

"Excuse me?" Jenn asked, but Mrs. Landlass prattled on.

"He didn't have you sign a prenup, did he? Because if he didn't, if you have a good team of lawyers, I'd hold out for the mansion—imagine, darling, Wayne Manor to yourself! Not that you _need_ it; goodness knows you're wealthy with your father's fortune, but it's the _principle_ of the thing—"

"Mrs. Landlass!" Jenn said, detaching her arm from the older woman's hold. "Bruce and I are _not_ getting divorced—or if we are, it's news to me. Even if we were, it would be _our_ business, not the world's."

"Oh, whatever you say, dear. Now, I've been trying to get you to come to one of my little girls' nights out, but you always seem to be _busy._ " Mrs. Landlass gave her a pointed look. "Is anything the matter?"

The woman was always trying to find drama where none existed. Jenn sighed. "Not at all. When's the next one?"

She was only able to get rid of her after promising to attend one of her parties the next Friday, and then Mrs. Landlass sailed triumphantly off.

Jenn resolved to look for a familiar face before another unfriendly being swooped down on her, and almost immediately, she spotted Jim Gordon and his wife, Barbara. She'd only met Jim a few times, as their paths and social circles didn't often cross, but she knew the basics. She also knew that he'd been the only one to help Bruce in his starting out as Batman, and continued to assist him whenever possible—and for that, he had Bruce's eternal respect and gratitude.

She went over, having to navigate to avoid a few people (gossip-mongers) that she'd rather not talk to. Jim saw her coming and she shook his hand when she reached them. "Lieutenant Gordon, so good to see you."

"Mrs. Wayne," he acknowledged her, smiling slightly. He wasn't one to wear his emotions on his sleeve, she'd noted, so she considered herself lucky to get a smile at all.

"Mrs. Gordon," she said, turning to Barbara. "How are you?"

"Fine, Jenn, I'm fine," Barbara answered. She was a likeable, no-nonsense woman whom Jenn had met once before, but Barbara acted as though they'd been friends forever. Jenn knew that that would probably be considered a bad trait by some people, but in the South and in her area of England, everybody was everybody's friend. It was refreshing.

"Where's little James?" she asked, naming their young son.

"With the babysitter," Barbara answered. "He should be in bed by now, anyway. It's nice to get out every now and then."

"But I bet you wouldn't trade being a mother for the world," Jenn guessed.

"Oh, of course not!" Barbara answered. "It's a wonderful experience, if a little harrowing." She looked speculatively at Jenn. "You should try it."

"Barbara," said Jim, slightly disapproving.

"All I'm saying is that most women want a child," Barbara remarked with a slight, knowledgeable smile, "and I'm here to say that it's a wonderful thing."

"That's her business," Jim said.

"Oh, I don't mind," Jenn said quickly.

"Well, don't you _encourage_ her," Jim protested. Jenn and Barbara laughed.

"Actually," the former said, "I'd love to have children. It's the timing, though. Bruce and I both have so much to do, and I don't want our child raised by the maid." _Or butler, as the case may be._ "Frankly, too, I'm not sure Bruce is ready to be a father." Well, that was true, she privately reflected. It wasn't from any immaturity on his part—rather, their Batman dilemma. There just wasn't a way.

"Well, just a spot of advice," Barbara said, reaching out and touching Jenn's hand.

"Oh, here we go…" mumbled Jim beneath his breath. His wife shot him an amused glance.

"You're not getting any younger. Take my sister, for example—the dear girl wanted children _very_ much, but her career got in the way. She's past menopause now." Jim groaned. Barbara continued. "If you want children, it's best to have them while you still can. Bruce, too! How old is he, thirty?"

"Barbara!" Jim protested.

Jenn laughed. "He's getting close to thirty-two."

"Ah. Well, he's not going to last forever."

Not for the first time, Jenn realized that that was true. He wasn't going to always be there. Whether he was taken from her by an unlucky night or just by natural causes, he was going to go sooner or later. A sinking feeling grew heavy in the pit of her stomach.

That was when the gunmen burst in. Their leader fired off a few rounds into the ceiling, and as people began to scream, shouted out, "All right, everybody shut up and don't move!"

**Chapter Twelve**

Jenn instinctively moved closer to the Gordons, eyes fixed on the unfolding spectacle. There were about ten men, in ski masks, all bearing AK-47s or something similar. They spread out through the room, blocking the exits.

The leader climbed the podium. "Everyone shut up!" he ordered again, glaring malevolently at them all. There were a few gasps, and someone was crying, but the room quickly quieted, fear and curiosity getting the better of its occupants. "Now, we're gonna do this nice and easy. No escape attempts. No one try to be a hero—and I realized that I'm addressing a room full of cops, so _someone's_ going to be stupid. Here, allow me to make an example."

He jerked his head at one of his subordinates, and they singled out a man from the crowd. It was Commissioner Loeb, and Jenn heard Gordon suck in a breath as they pulled him up on the podium. The leader didn't say a word, just lifted his gun and put two bullets in Loeb's head. The Commissioner jerked as screams filled the room, and fell backwards off the podium.

The leader looked back over the crowd. "Shut UP!" he ordered. "Stop that screaming or you'll be next!"

The threat had the desired effect. The crowd quickly grew silent. "All right," said the man. "We're not trying to keep this quiet, so your cell phones, pagers, and things won't be taken. We are _not_ here to rob you. We only want one thing. If you all stay quiet and don't try to leave, you'll be fine."

He didn't elaborate on what it was that they wanted, and apparently finished, he leaped from the podium. Jenn turned to the Gordons—at Loeb's shooting, Barbara had buried her head in her husband's shoulder, and Jim had wrapped an arm around her.

"What do they _want_?" Jenn whispered. He could only shake his head.

* * *

Bruce had had to work late, and as he drove home under the lights of Gotham, he realized moodily that he was really starting to miss his wife. Call it newlywed dependence, but his sleep had been off without her there, and as a result he'd been unable to work as well and his moods were going awry. He pushed it aside, ignored it as much as he was able in order to function, but there were times when he was unable to ignore it, such as when he was tossing and turning in the middle of the night, the bed getting too hot and then too cold, the sheets tangling around him and his pillow flattening out. He wasn't usually temperamental, but he was getting _very_ frustrated.

As he pulled past the gate and into the long drive leading to Wayne Manor, he decided that if she wasn't back by tomorrow, he was going after her, and he didn't care _what_ he had to do or say to get her home.

He pulled into the garage and exited the car, tossing the keys into the air and catching them again. The side door led to the mansion, and he hung the keys along with the twenty-something sets already on the wall, shedding his coat as he went further into the house.

Alfred came quickly from the kitchen, and Bruce opened his mouth to greet him, but the butler spoke first. "Master Bruce, quickly. In here." Bruce's forehead creased, but he followed him into the closest den, where the television was on.

"…as a hostage situation has been unfolding," said the reporter, policemen darting to and fro behind the barrier at her back. "Details are vague, but we do know that there has been one fatality and the assumed leader of the captors sent out a videotape with his demands. We haven't been able to get ahold of a copy, but it has been made clear that they intend to swap the hostages for Batman."

Bruce leapt into action, darting from the room and heading for the nearest entrance to the cave. Alfred's call made him stop. "What?" he asked, turning back to the butler.

"Master Bruce… I think you should know that Madam Jenn is there."

Bruce didn't move. "She's one of the hostages?"

"I assume so, sir," said Alfred, looking vastly troubled. "Do be careful."

Bruce gave a terse nod and set off again, jabbing the knob and hitting the stairs. Jenn was in there. That fact changed everything. Doubtless he'd go about it in the same way, but he would be scared for her. There was no way around it.

The cave was chilly, but he didn't notice, going straight for the case where his suit was kept. Quickly, he discarded the business suit he'd attended work in, pulling a thin black t-shirt over his head and matching that with a pair of chinos—after all, if only for comfort's sake, he couldn't go naked under the suit. The armor was too hard, too uncomfortable. However, with the thin layer of padding, it was much more bearable.

That accomplished, he began fitting the armor to him. He moved quickly; over time he'd gotten used to being called to emergencies and having to work fast. Within minutes, he was ready. Strapping on the utility belt, he went to the Tumbler.

* * *

Jenn had been listening to the muttered whispers of their captors as they'd moved around the hostages, and had come to the conclusion that things were going to get _very_ bad if _somebody_ didn't act soon. They were getting antsy; restless. Three times now they'd snapped at people who had been doing nothing wrong, at least not that she could see. Despite this, they didn't seem particularly rigorous in their guard—they didn't really seem to care how people acted, as long as they weren't trying to escape.

She was slightly frustrated because she couldn't figure out what was going on, what they wanted. Their apparent leader and two others had gone upstairs, and she had the feeling that if there was anything to be discovered, it would be by listening to them.

They weren't acting on their own, she was fairly sure of that. There was really nothing about them that spoke of passion or determination, as there might be if they were in it for themselves. They could be bounty hunters, hired muscle… she wasn't sure. She needed to find their leader. The answers lay with him, she knew it.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she looked around the room. There were five exits and six guards. If she could find a gap somewhere, she might be able to slip under the radar and sneak upstairs. It was risky, definitely, but sitting here was driving her crazy. And she didn't think they'd shoot her for trying to escape.

 _That's an idiotic thing to assume, Jenn,_ her mind informed her. _They shot Loeb just to prove a point—that they_ wouldn't _mind killing people. You'd be better off staying where you are._

Jim spoke to her, cutting off her train of thought. "What's wrong?" he whispered. She guessed her expression must have given her away, and she turned towards him.

Barbara was sitting, like about half the hostages, her face in her hands. Jim was standing over his wife, his stance protective, and the two of them hadn't spoken much to her since Loeb had been shot. Jenn paused for a second, and then, looking around to make sure they weren't being listened to, whispered, "I'm thinking of trying to get out of here to find out what this is all about."

Jim's expression changed from slight concern to flat disapproval. "You trying to get yourself killed?"

"I want to know what's going on," she responded, looking left and right. _I'm not going to give up a chance to find out about these guys, in case they end up being a much bigger threat._

"We all do, but there's a point when it's just stupid. They wouldn't hesitate to shoot you."

"I know that. That's why I don't plan on getting caught." Jenn toed off her high heels. "They're not watching us very carefully. I don't think it'd be too hard to get upstairs."

"Is she insane?" Jim wanted to know, turning to his wife, who'd looked up, tuning in to the conversation. "Anyone else would want to get out, not find out why these guys are here."

"She's not most people," Barbara observed, and then looked around. "I think she could do it."

"Barbara!"

"There are too many people in here for them to keep track of every single one," Barbara said. " _I_ want to know what's going on, too."

Jim started to protest, but likely realized that he wasn't going to get far. The two women had made up their minds. He began to look around the room, and then leaned towards Jenn. "See that guard?"

"Which? That one?" she asked, pointing to the one standing in front of one of the exits closest to them.

"Yeah. He's not suited to this job—easily distracted, bored with what he's doing. You get a sufficient distraction and you've got a pane of about ten seconds—as long as none of the other guards are looking at you."

"That'd probably need to be a pretty big distraction," Jenn said slowly.

"Don't worry." The voice was a new one, and Jenn and the Gordons quickly turned to see eight-months-pregnant Amelia Ridley looking at them with confidence—she'd obviously been listening in. Jenn was startled—she thought they'd been quiet, but apparently she was wrong. At least none of the guards appeared to have heard. "I've got it covered," Amelia continued.

"Amelia—wait!" hissed Jenn, but the woman hadn't gotten the reputation of being the most stubborn female in Gotham for nothing. She made her way across the room. Jenn turned to the Gordons.

"She's not going to do what I think she's going to do, is she?"

"I think she is," Jim said slowly.

At that moment, Amelia screamed out, "The baby! I'm having the baby!"

Jenn exchanged glances with the Gordons as the guards, all horrified, fixed their gazes on the pregnant woman. Moving fast but almost sideways, trying not to draw much attention, she took off towards the door. It seemed like an eternity till she reached the exit, but Amelia was shouting and swooning, and the guard was transfixed. She reached the door and exited backwards, her eyes fixed on the back of the guard just five feet in front of her.

She felt adrenaline coursing through her veins powerfully. Providence was with her just now, giving her the courage to keep going.

There were no stairs in the immediate vicinity, so she looked around for an optional course. Three doors yielded closets or dead-end rooms, but eventually she reached a hallway. A sign on the wall read that the stairs were at the end.

She followed the path she'd mapped out in her mind, reaching the second floor and then using her ears to assist her, creeping along the next hallway to present itself to her. It wasn't long before her careful listening pulled off.

Voices came from behind the fourth door on the right, a light beneath the door attesting to the presence of the villains behind it. She became aware that she was very exposed in the open hallway, but couldn't do much about it, so she opened her ears and leaned near, listening.

It was hard, at first. Their voices were hushed and she couldn't make out very many words. Eventually, though, one of them grew agitated and began to speak louder. "…course not! I want him out of the way as much as all of us do. I'm just sayin', it might not be that easy."

Someone else responded, quieter. Jenn could make out, "…what's he gonna do?" but there was more that she didn't catch. The loud man spoke again.

"And why's he so out to get him, anyway? I'm sick of going into these jobs blind. I haven't been told _anything_ in months—soon, I'm just gonna get sick of it."

"He's planning something." The owner of this new voice must have been standing next to the door, because he sounded as if he were speaking right into her ear, and she instinctively drew back. "Something big. If you ask me, it's a takeover of the city—and if he's gonna do that, he needs Batman out of the way. _That's_ why we're doing this, and _that's_ why you should probably keep your mouth shut and—"

The rest was lost to her as someone touched her on the shoulder. She spun with a muffled gasp and her eyes fell on the one they'd been discussing, Batman himself. He looked nearly as startled to see her as she was him, but he recovered considerably faster than she when the next words drifted to them: "What was that?"

Grabbing her shoulder, he yanked her into the nearest unlocked room and closed the door just as the eavesdropped-upon began to filter out of their own room to investigate. She quickly got a grip on herself, and the two of them waited in silence till the footsteps faded and a door shut somewhere.

He spoke first. "How many are there?" he asked in a quiet growl.

"Nine," she was able to answer with confidence. "Six downstairs, three in the room just over there." Whatever grievances she had with her husband, she'd already put aside. Even if she hadn't, she had no reason to be angry with Batman.

"Is anyone hurt?"

"No one—but Commissioner Loeb—"

"I heard," he said shortly. He checked something on his belt, and then looked up at her again. "I'm going to ask you to do something potentially dangerous."

She nodded, ready for whatever it was. "Okay."

"I don't know how you got out of there, but you're going to need to go back in without being caught. Start spreading the word that as soon as I appear, all the hostages need to _run_ , get out and out of the way. They won't be shot; the men will be too busy dealing with me. Do you think you can do that?"

Jenn hesitated. She hadn't really thought about how she was going to re-enter the room—she hadn't exactly gotten that far in her plans. Still, though, she thought that she could do it—especially if Amelia was actually in labor. Besides, it wasn't as if she was trying to escape. Looking back up at Batman, she nodded. "Yes. I can."

"All right. You've got somewhere around five minutes." He pointed towards the door. "Go."

She went. Very furtively, checking for any prying eyes, she left the room, went downstairs, retraced her steps, and paused outside the door to the ballroom. She listened for noise, and there was a fair amount of it, so slowly, she cracked the door open and looking with one eye inside.

From what she could see, a cluster of the men were around what was probably the pregnant Amelia, leaving some of the doors short on guards. People were chattering nervously, and she risked slipping in, as she couldn't see a guard in her field of vision. She didn't look around, going straight for the Gordons.

Both Jim and Barbara looked infinitely relieved. The latter held out her hands to Jenn as she approached, and she took them, daring to look cautiously around. "Batman's here," she whispered, keeping her voice extremely low.

"What?" Jim asked, leaning closer.

"Batman. He's here. I spoke to him," Jenn said. "Start spreading the message—when he arrives, we _all_ get out."

Jim and Barbara were wise people. They didn't ask for extra clarification, didn't waste time—with each keeping a cautious eye on their guards, they began to speak to the other hostages, passing on the message. Even as Jenn assisted, she could see it spreading like wildfire—it felt almost as if an electric current was passing through the people, just the mere knowledge that _Batman was here._

Inevitably, the guards noticed and got suspicious. Jenn noted them talking to each other, looking uncomfortable, before they actually did anything, and very soon, one of them singled her out. She figured that her luck had to run out somewhere.

"Where'd you come from, girlie?" he snarled, grabbing her wrist. She jerked back slightly.

"I've been here," she answered.

"Then why haven't I seen you before now, huh? What are you saying to—"

The lights went out, cutting the man off in midspeech, and the only light left came from the moon through the large round window that made up most of the northern wall. A few people screamed, and the man holding Jenn's wrist dragged her towards another of his companions. "What the hell's going on?" he shouted.

"I think he's here," the man answered, a bit too calmly. "People are whispering and that's what they're sayin'. Be ready, man."

No sooner had the words left his mouth than there was a shattering, and the northern window broke as something large and heavy came tumbling through it. Jenn didn't need to be told to know that it was Batman, and her wrist was abruptly released as the man's hand went to steady his gun and he and his companions began firing in the vicinity of the window.

Batman had been wise, knowing that they wouldn't have any of the hostages next to the window, and therefore there wouldn't be any hostages in the line of fire. It took people a moment to get oriented, but Jenn turned towards the nearest cluster of them and hissed, "Go!"

Almost as one, the hostages surged for the doors. Jenn found the Gordons as quickly as she could in the dim light, and they almost herded the people out, making sure that everyone made it. Amelia couldn't move very quickly, so Barbara Gordon immediately went to her side and escorted her out. She was possibly the only one having trouble, though.

Jenn turned to make sure that the bad guys' attention was, indeed, fully on Batman. She shouldn't have worried. Her eyes had adjusted fairly well to the dark by then, but still, she was having difficulty tracing his movements. He'd already dropped about three of the six men, and the remaining three were scared to death, clustering together, two of them missing their guns and the third jabbing it in all directions, as if he could scare Batman out of the shadows.

There was a whistling noise, and Batman, whom she'd last seen somewhere on the ground, came dropping from the ceiling onto the three. In their midst, he disarmed the last one with a blow that clearly broke the guy's arm—not before taking a bullet that clipped his side at best, she noted with a grimace—and shifted into a flurry of movement that she couldn't keep track of.

Someone touched her arm, and she became aware that she and Jim were the last civilians in the room. "Come on," he whispered. "Let's go."

She followed him immediately, but cast one last look over her shoulder. Just as Batman finished with the last threat, the three from upstairs came bursting out of one of the doors. He still had work to do, and despite just seeing him single-handedly take on six men at a time, she couldn't deny feeling a little scared for him. Still, the best thing to do would be to let him handle it. So, she left.

The police were outdoors, trying to maintain their sense of control with the flood of hostages. Jenn almost immediately spotted a familiar face—Alfred, behind the police line. She turned to touch Jim's shoulder. "I'll talk to you soon, okay?"

He nodded, a bit distracted by trying to find his wife among the masses, and she fairly ran over to Alfred, noting wryly as she went that she hadn't put her shoes back on. Alfred ducked under the line and caught her as she arrived, embracing her. "Madam Jenn," he said, relief clear in his strained voice. "You had me worried sick."

She caught his hands, turning back to look at the building, most pointedly at the broken window. "He's in there," she remarked, almost too quietly for him to hear.

"I saw," he said. "How's he doing?"

She gave a slightly wry laugh. "Taking care of himself. And a hundred other people. What else would you expect?"

"Nothing more." Alfred took her hands and looked her over. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she said, reflecting how that very possibly might _not_ have been the case if he'd shown up any later. "Almost all of us are."

"No doubt the police will have questions for some, if not all of you," Alfred said, looking disapproving. "You'll be lucky if you get home by three in the morning." After a moment's pause, he glanced down. "Now, tell me, Madam— _why_ are you barefooted?"

**Chapter Thirteen**

Alfred was right. The police wanted answers from at least a handful of the hostages, and Jim rather reluctantly recruited her to tell them what she knew, as she'd had a more singular role in the whole thing than the rest of them. Despite her insistence that he could go home, that she'd just hail a cab later on, Alfred stayed with her throughout the whole ordeal.

When it was finally over at around one in the morning, she climbed exhaustedly into the backseat of the Rolls Royce and sat for a moment, before Alfred asked, "Would you like to go home, Madam?"

"I would," she admitted. "But I need to go back to the penthouse for one more night. I've got to pack my stuff up—but tomorrow, I'm coming home. I promise."

"Very good," he said. After a moment's silence, he said, "It'll certainly be good to have you back. You have no idea how Master Bruce behaves when you aren't around."

She smiled. "I'm certain he's ecstatic not to have to deal with me," she said, only half-sarcastically. Alfred raised his eyebrows at her in the rearview mirror.

"Quite the opposite, really. He's grown so accustomed to having you around that when you aren't, he exhibits a rather gruesome display of petulance. It'll be good for all of us to have you back."

She smiled. "The scary part about it is that we have to actually reconcile before things relax at all."

"I doubt that'll be a problem. The two of you certainly have had time to think things over."

Jenn was too tired to talk much after that. She stared out at the city in her zombified state, and somehow Alfred got her to the penthouse, got her upstairs, and left after making sure she would be all right for the night.

No sooner had he walked out the door than the phone rang. Jenn automatically picked it up, though the second she answered it, she remembered who had been the source of most of her calls in the past few days.

"Well, Jennifer, you've had an exciting night, haven't you?"

She let out a hiss of exasperation. This was the last person she needed to talk to at the moment. "Malachi, I think you should hang up right now."

"Oh, don't worry, I know you're tired. I only intend to keep you on the line for a minute or two."

"Then talk fast, or I'm hanging up." Even as she bluffed, Jenn knew she wouldn't. She wouldn't because he'd call back mere seconds later, and the constant ringing would rag on her already frayed nerves.

"I just wanted to remark on how it disturbed me a bit that your husband didn't show up to bring you home after your little experience."

Jenn straightened up. He didn't know about Bruce's secondary identity… did he? "Yeah, so?" she asked, her tone slightly hostile. More so than usual when she was talking to him, that was.

Malachi seemed to attribute her unfriendliness to hurt. "I don't know—if it had been me, I would have been angry. After all, he _is_ your husband—he's supposed to love you enough to put aside your differences in times of need."

Jenn relaxed slightly when Malachi didn't refer to Batman, and allowed herself a small smile that bordered on the territory of a smirk. Oh, her husband had come—Malachi just didn't know it. If he was trying to get to her through the use of hurt feelings, he was failing miserably. "You're crazy; you've said it yourself. Why should I even be listening to you?"

"Have I struck a nerve?"

"Actually, you haven't. Bruce and I understand each other, which is more than I can say for you and me."

"Oh, I understand you," he said with a soft laugh. "But you're tired. Get some sleep and we'll talk about this tomorrow." There was a click, and the connection was lost.

Jenn gratefully hung up the phone. She just wasn't in the mood to converse with psychos tonight. She was irritated because of the ordeal, and it might just be her dreamlike state of the moment, but something felt a bit off. She couldn't remember what it was… she needed to go to bed, and maybe in the morning she'd be able to tell.

All thoughts that didn't directly deal with her getting to bed evaporated from her mind. She took off her gown, dressed in appropriate sleepwear, and collapsed on her bed, asleep within minutes.

* * *

For Batman, the night was just getting started. When the police flooded in after the hostages had escaped, he took his leave, knowing that the cops would have no problem dealing with the men he'd left in various states of consciousness.

He paused on a rooftop to collect himself. She was all right, he knew that for sure—he'd seen her leave with Gordon. Gordon would take care of her. It took a weight off of his mind and allowed him to focus more directly on general wrongdoing.

It was possibly an hour later, after a drug bust and thwarting several attempts at vandalism, when he stumbled by accident upon the jewelry store that was being robbed. He saw the black shape entering through the cut-open skylight, and with a frown, followed.

The security system was probably off, because the woman—he was judging by her long blonde hair, loose because she wore no mask—was rooting gleefully through the stores of diamonds, her back to him. He decided to give her a fighting chance. "Put those back," he ordered, though the chances of her obeying were one in a million.

She turned around, and he immediately recognized her with an internal groan. Meredith really didn't get it, did she? A self-satisfied look came over her face, and she almost purred: "Well, well. I figured you'd show up."

"I didn't think you'd resort to _crime_ , Meredith," he growled, crossing his arms and giving her a disapproving glare. It didn't seem to register with her, because an expression of joy came over her face, and he realized that he'd let it slip that he knew her name. Inwardly, he swore.

"Well, it _is_ the only way to get your attention," she said, coming nearer. He refused to back up, though he was secretly at a loss. This was the first time he'd ever had to deal with something like this.

"You don't want to get mixed up in this," he warned. "There are consequences that come with it that I don't think you've foreseen."

"Oh, really," she said, reaching him. He forced himself not to flee as she reached out and ran one finger down his chest plate. "Like… getting to spend more time with you?" This woman was an idiot. That was really the only conclusion he could come to.

Lightning-fast, he reached out and snatched her wrist, removing her hand from any contact with him. "I'm going to tell you again: put the stuff back. Get out of here and I'll forget this ever happened."

She drew back, and he let her go. She looked insulted. "No," she said.

"Fine," he answered, and within seconds, had her held against the wall face-first at arm's length, pinning one of her wrists down with his spare hand. "If you're going to play at being a criminal, you're going to be treated like a criminal," he growled. "Male, female—you all end up in the same place. I'll give you _one_ more chance to put everything back and leave."

There was silence except for Meredith's indignant huffs, and just as he was about to cuff her, she gasped, "All _right!_ " He let her go and she whirled around, spitting mad. "You really have issues, don't you?"

"I dress like a bat, don't I?" he deadpanned. She didn't seem amused, and he hoped— _prayed_ —that the rough treatment might have the desired effect, might make her give up this creepy obsession.

She reached into the bag she'd been stuffing jewelry in and began shoveling it back into the cases haphazardly. When she was done, she held the bag upside-down to show him that there was nothing left in it, and then flung it at him. "There. I hope you're happy."

"Very," he said. "Let's go." He grabbed her arm and dragged her up through the skylight again with the use of the grappling gun. On the rooftop, he released her. "I'm going to call the police and report this," he let her know, feeling almost as if he were dealing with a rebellious child. "You should probably leave before then."

"Fine," she growled. He turned to go, but her voice halted him. "Oh…" She didn't sound angry anymore, and very reluctantly, not wanting to know but compelled by some sick sense of curiosity, he turned back. Her hands were clasped and she was smiling slightly. "Our first fight."

Beneath the mask, his expression was incredulous. This woman just wasn't going to give up, was she? Shaking his head disapprovingly at her, he got away from there as quickly as possible, mentally noting to find out _where_ she'd come from and not to accept some bullshit blank background check as easily as he had last time.

* * *

"Master Bruce." The sudden voice disturbed Bruce's deep, for-once dreamless slumber, and he cracked an eyelid open to investigate its source, only to be assaulted by a sudden stream of light as Alfred yanked open the curtains.

"Go away," groaned Bruce, sneaking a glance at the clock before rolling over. It was only nine in the morning, and he'd had a rough night—he'd been planning on sleeping for at least two more hours. He was well aware that Alfred was disturbing him for a reason, but old habits died hard, and his habit was to pretend that he'd fallen asleep again until Alfred revealed whatever was important enough to rouse him from his slumber.

The old butler was well aware of this routine, and so wasted no time in getting to it. "Sir, Madam Jenn is back, and she wishes to speak with you."

 _She's back._ Even though he'd half expected it after the night before, he couldn't help feeling an odd sense of relief, mingled with a hint of anger. They'd probably have another blowout—after all, he was pretty pissed about the fact that she'd _left._ Then, maybe things could get back to normal—he was tired of looking up to say something to her only to find that she wasn't there. Disguising his gladness, he grumbled, "She couldn't wait for an hour or two?"

"She seems rather distressed, sir. I believe it would be advisable to speak with her as soon as possible."

Alfred usually knew what he was talking about, and Jenn usually wasn't one to get upset over trivial things. Bruce rose and began the morning routine.

Five minutes later, he went downstairs, into the kitchen, where Alfred had said she was waiting. The butler had disappeared tactfully somewhere, doubtless to allow them their privacy, and as Bruce stood in the doorframe, he crossed his arms, waiting for her to explain.

She looked like she'd had a restless night, and he reflected that he probably didn't look too good, either. She'd been sitting at the table, but got up the second she spotted him. "I think you should sit down. There's something I need to talk to you about."

He raised an eyebrow. "You really think I won't be fine standing?"

Her jaw tightened as she looked at him, and eventually she said, "Fine. I think I might be pregnant."

 _Okay… that was a little abrupt._ Bruce slowly unfolded his arms, lifting a brow high at this declaration. "Okay…" he said, taking a step forward as the meaning of her words slammed into him.

"And I know this isn't the best time to say it, because we're in the middle of a fight and everything," she said, rambling—she was nervous, he could tell. "But I figured it out early this morning and decided you needed to know."

Bruce was still trying to process exactly what she'd just said. Eventually, he shook his head in an attempt to get the sudden block out of it. "Um… how—uh, how could you tell?"

"Uh, well," she said, lifting a slightly shaky hand to push back her hair, "I started waking up in the middle of the night last night—something just felt wrong, and then around five this morning I realized that my period was late. So, as soon as the nearest pharmacy was open, I bought a—two, two actually—pregnancy tests. They were both positive."

He wasn't equipped to deal with this right now. They'd talked this over—they didn't plan on kids, at least for a while. For all of that to change all of a sudden… he realized that Jenn was waiting for him to speak, and lifted a hand to his forehead. "Have you seen a doctor?"

"No," she said, folding her arms tightly. "I… I don't know, thought we could…"

He understood immediately. "We can go now, if you want," he suggested, and she nodded, a look of relief coming over her face. "Just let me call and let them know I won't be at work right away," he said, regaining some sort of grip on the situation—now that he had something to do, he didn't feel quite as awkward or helpless.

"I'll tell Alfred," she volunteered, and moved to leave. As she walked past, he laid a hand on her arm as he remembered.

"Jenn—are you home now? For good?"

She didn't hesitate, just nodded. "Yeah, Bruce. I'm back."

"Okay." He nodded and let her go, going to find the nearest phone.

* * *

Jenn couldn't help it; she was uncomfortable. Not a month ago she would have found that impossible, to be uncomfortable in the sole presence of her husband, but things were different now. She didn't know if they would be _good_ different or _bad_ different coming out of this, but, either way, they would doubtless change.

She and Bruce were in one of the cars, driving carefully to the doctor's office. It was roomy, but still confined, and the air surrounding them was generally awkward, since they hadn't said a word to each other since leaving the grounds.

There was also a lot of tension over the bombshell she'd dropped this morning. She'd been planning on coming back anyway, but this discovery sort of forced her hand. There was a strict silence between them on the matter, as if both were afraid to speak of it without confirmation that it was, indeed, true.

She suddenly realized that she was sick of this. She was sick of not being able to talk to her husband, she was sick of living apart from him, for however short a time. Basically, it was agony, and she wasn't going to stand for it.

Turning her head, she said, "Bruce, I'm sorry."

He glanced briefly at her before asking, "Sorry for what?"

"All of it," she replied simply. "I've never known you to state an opinion without knowing what you were talking about, and I should have listened to you about Lex. And I _definitely_ shouldn't have left—that was just cowardice."

There was silence for a moment except for the hum of the car. Eventually, he said, "Well, you're not the only one who needs to be sorry. I said some… things… that I never should have. I know you better than that. And I wasn't exactly gentle when I insisted that you see nothing of Lex." She nodded slightly, relieved. For a second, she'd been irrationally afraid that he wouldn't respond.

"I just want you to promise me one thing, Jenn."

"Anything," she said, and she meant it.

"Don't _ever_ leave like that again."

"I think I can promise that," she said immediately. "Like I said… it was a really big mistake. I shouldn't have done it, and I won't, not again." She half-smiled. "As far as experiments go, I'd say that one was an abject failure."

He allowed a smile, and she twined her fingers with his for a moment. She was already feeling much better, already wondering why she'd drawn this out for so long.

"You have no idea how bad it's been without you," she said, a little more lightheartedly. "Do you know how often I've gotten used to talking to you throughout the day?"

He gave a short laugh. "It was twice as bad here."

"Oh, I heard," she said, a slight smile on her face. "When I saw Alfred, he let me know. You know, you shouldn't take things out on him."

"I wasn't," he defended himself, before realizing that she was teasing. He settled back into his seat, feeling as if a large weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

Before long, though, tension returned—a different sort this time. During the course of their making up, they'd forgotten about the issue at hand, but now, it was back, and weighing heavily on Jenn's mind.

She tried not to think about it. Soon, they'd know for sure. Then, they could talk.

* * *

Bruce was pacing, and he didn't care who saw. They'd been at the doctor's for over an hour, and he was determined not to leave until he knew.

They were waiting for test results to return. Bruce knew that things like that couldn't be rushed, but he was still impatient. Jenn was sitting, looking impossibly tranquil for the situation at hand, and he looked at her after pacing a bit more. "How can you be like that?" he asked.

"Like what?" she questioned, looking at her rarely-agitated husband as if coming out of a trance.

"So calm," he replied, pushing a hand through his hair. "Just sitting there. You know, I can't sit still."

She smiled ethereally and reached out for his hand, and he came forward to give it to her. "I just know," she said simply, "that what's going to happen is going to happen. Nothing we do is going to change that, unless you want to start kicking my stomach right now." He drew back, looking slightly repulsed. She shook her head slightly. "I was kidding."

"Don't."

"Yeah," she said meditatively. "That was kind of dark, wasn't it?" He just shook his head at her and resumed his pacing.

A few more minutes clicked by agonizingly slowly, and then the door opened and Dr. Robert Jackman slipped in. He was a small man, shorter than both Bruce _and_ Jenn, and looked as if he was the meek type, but five minutes talking to him had convinced Bruce that that was a façade. The man knew what he was doing and wasn't afraid to be bold.

"We've got the results," he said, refusing to beat around the bush and going directly to it. "Mrs. Wayne, you aren't pregnant."

Bruce sucked in a breath, unsure of whether to feel relieved or disappointed at the news. To avoid examining his own feelings, he looked at Jenn to see how she was taking it. Her expression didn't convey anything, except perhaps a mild confusion.

"But—the tests—" she began.

"Ah, yes," he said, glancing through some papers attached to the clipboard he carried. "You see, those tests are made to measure the amount of HCG—that's 'the pregnancy hormone'—that your body's making. What you're experiencing is what we call a chemical pregnancy."

He looked up, as if expecting to be interrupted, but neither of them said anything, and so he continued. "It happens when the egg is fertilized, but won't go on to form a baby. Your body makes extra HCG, but there shouldn't be any other symptoms. You just had it at a bad time, on a month where your menstrual cycle would be late anyway."

Jenn and Bruce had locked gazes by this point, and Dr. Jackman looked from one of them to the other. "I'm sorry," he said after a moment longer.

Jenn shook her head. "That's… all right, doctor," she said, glancing away from her husband. "At least it's not a miscarriage."

He nodded. "Quite." She said goodbye to him—Bruce hadn't spoken a word and didn't seem likely to start—and then settled with the receptionist so they could leave.

The drive home was silent.


	2. Part Two

**Chapter Fourteen**

When they reached home, Bruce murmured something about being expected at work and dashed off. Jenn understood that he must be in a chaotic state mentally, while she herself had been submerged in a numbing calm the entire way through. She opted to bring Alfred up to date on things.

He made tea, his cure for everything, and after she finished the story, the two of them just sat there for a while, her fingers curled around the cup, leeching from its warmth. Finally, he asked, "How are you feeling, Madam?"

And then, much to her surprise, a tear slid from one of her eyes and dropped into the cup. Her sinuses clogged, and she sniffed and lifted a hand to try and clear her face. "Don't—don't get the wrong idea," she pleaded, trying fruitlessly to hide the fact that she was crying from the observant butler. "It's just a lot to absorb in a short time."

"I understand completely, Madam," Alfred said gravely. He paused for a moment, and then said, "And far be it from me to point out the Master's shortcomings, but it seems to me that he should be here right now."

Jenn shook her head. "Don't," she said with another sniff. "He's dealing with everything the way he does. You know what frustrates me, though?" she asked, tilting her head back as if gravity would help her push the tears back where they came from.

"What?"

"That I'm even upset. I mean, I think I knew. Somehow, it just didn't seem… _real._ We've talked about it—we don't plan on having kids for a long while yet, but I think what's got me so worked up is that… even for so short a time, the possibility is there." She reached up again, wiping her face with her fingertips before realizing that this was probably what would typically be deemed 'girl talk.' She looked back at Alfred. "I should probably shut up now."

"No. Oh, no, Madam. You talk as much as you want," he said, offering a comforting smile and holding out a wrinkled hand, which she took gratefully. "What else am I here for, if not to listen to the individual grievances of the manor's occupants, and try to help as best I can?"

This consoling speech only made her cry more. "You're so kind, Alfred. How on _earth_ do you find the patience to put up with us?"

He smiled. "Madam, I think you've deceived yourself into thinking you're more trouble than you are. I've dealt with far more difficult people in my course of days. All you require is occasional consolation and advice. Believe me; you're easy to soothe."

She smiled, focusing on halting the tears, and soon, the heat behind her eyes ceased and her sinuses cleared. "Thanks."

"It was my pleasure," he said simply, squeezing her hand. "Now. Drink that tea. It'll make you feel better."

She obeyed, and as he got up to clean up the tea things, he reflected that it was rather upsetting that she'd had so many troubles in the past few months. She was a laughing, happy individual, and it was a shame that life's trials had to be incurred on her as the well as the rest of them. He simply hoped that she'd get over this spot of trouble soon. They all felt better when she was cheerful.

* * *

Evening had fallen hours ago, but despite the late hour and the experience he'd gone through the night before, Jim Gordon was called to the crime scene at around ten.

He didn't blame whoever had summoned him—things were chaotic since Loeb's murder. They'd been trying to question the mercenaries who were conscious and able to speak coherently, but the men refused to talk, and soon the nurses at the hospital had enough, shooing the police out.

That little Wayne girl had some guts, he had to admit. Sneaking out of that place after a man was shot right in front of her just to prove that the men weren't averse to killing, and all they ended finding out was that whoever had hired the men was after Batman. The news seemed to trouble Jenn, but they were both too tired to talk about it.

Now, though, almost all thoughts of last night were swept from his mind as he examined the scene before him. After taking a good, long look, he sighed. "All right. Let's call him."

Half an hour later found him standing on the roof of the PD Headquarters, next to a light that shone into the sky, casting a bat-shaped gleam on the clouds. They hadn't had to use the signal since Christmas, but Gordon's hopes that they would solve these murders alone were fading fast.

He sensed rather than heard the presence of the summoned crime-fighter, and turned to see Batman coming towards him. "What is it?" he asked, straight to business.

Gordon sighed. "I think we've got a serial killer on our hands." He passed a long, wide envelope to him, and as Batman took it, said, "It's the fourth crime scene we've come across where we've found a gash in the victim's neck, dead by blood loss."

Batman took out the pictures and began flipping through them. "Were any drugs found in their systems?"

"Usually a standard date-rape drug, lamentably easy to access for pretty much anyone. Not in the first one, though—you'll see that it was the messiest of them, the closest we got to anyone, but our examination yielded nothing."

Batman tilted his head and peered and a picture of the first victim, heavily bruised around her face and neck, a girl of about high school age. The rest were neater—just that thick gash on the side of the neck, made strategically over the jugular. It was easy to see how things had gone—the murderer had killed the first one but had difficulty doing so, had decided that he or she would need something to make it easier the next time around. He clenched his jaw.

"I'll take care of it," he said, placing the pictures back in envelope. Gordon nodded.

"Nice work last night," he said.

Batman, who'd been just about to leave, turned back. "Just my job," he growled briefly, and then dropped off the ledge.

* * *

Batman's night was difficult. The city's criminals seemed to sense that the Gotham PD was in chaos, and they were striking wherever they could while the enemy was weak. It was three o'clock by the time he returned to the cave.

Even then, his work wasn't done. He was determined to get a good look at the documents Gordon had provided him with, as he'd been too busy to do it before. He worked Batman's transformation into Bruce, but kept the former's mind as he took a seat at one of the workstations and clicked on a lamp in order to see.

He perused photograph after photograph, page after page, and decided eventually that he knew where his starting place would be. The first crime scene was messy in ways the others weren't, a learning experience for the killer. If he was going to find anything, it'd be there.

He was of two minds about his chances of success. On the one hand, Gotham CSI saw dozens of cases like these every day, and tended to get a bit careless. There was a fair possibility that he'd pick up something they missed. On the other hand, though, it had been a few weeks. Things got lost, swept away. He'd need to get there soon.

Face grim, he rose from his seat and clicked off the lamp. Letting his eyes adjust to the dark, he made his way to the elevator, which he usually took after his nights—he was generally too tired or sore to battle with the narrow stairs. As he ascended into the upper levels of the mansion, he began to shed Batman's psyche and don Bruce Wayne's. Batman's cares were dropped—or at least, pushed aside for now—and Bruce's troubles began to weigh on his mind, not the least of which was the occurrence of the morning.

He wasn't sure how to deal with it… after all, he'd never had to cope with something like this before. Instinct told him to talk to her, but something made him hang back, made him treat this matter with caution. Something told him it could blow up in his face.

A light was on in their usual living room on the second story. He moved into the room, expecting to find his wife asleep on the couch (again), but she was sitting upright, reading with her head resting on her hand. He let her hear him approach, and she looked up and gave him a mirthless smile. "Hi."

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked, coming to stand next to her. She shook her head.

"Too many things to think about," she said with a shrug. "Not that I _want_ to think about them… hence this," she remarked, lifting her copy of _Jane Eyre_. He nodded and paused, unsure. She noted his indecision and lifted an eyebrow. "Want to sit down?"

He complied, and she moved her propped-up feet to clear a space for him. He didn't sit near, not wanting to push contact on her, but she took the decision out of his hands by abandoning her book and nestling next to him as if she'd been born to it. He didn't mind, putting an arm around her and shutting his eyes.

For a moment, they were silent, but eventually she said, "You're not as cold when you come in at night."

"Cold enough," he said, eyes still closed, as he realized that he was indeed leeching off of her body heat. For some reason, it came naturally to her to steal the chill from his skin and replace it with warmth. He couldn't help but be glad for it it.

"Yeah, but it's getting warmer out every day." He felt her shiver, but she only pressed closer. "I'll be glad. I don't like cold—I'm a Southern girl, through and through."

"You lived in England for seven years," he pointed out. He'd seen English winters. They weren't pretty.

"And every winter was misery." He could hear the smile in her voice. Then, she shifted, and it was gone. "We should talk."

He nodded, ready for whatever she had to say. "I know."

Despite her declaration, there was a long silence. Her breathing evened out, and for a minute he thought she'd fallen asleep. Just when he was about to crane his neck to take a look, though, she spoke up. "This morning…" _Was it really only this morning_? He thought. He felt like he'd been awake for a week. "When I thought… what I did—what was going through your head?"

If that wasn't a loaded question, he didn't know what was. Still, he owed it to her to answer honestly. "I was thinking that it was too soon. That I can't be a father without giving up my… other commitment… first; that the city still needed me." Jenn shifted in his arms. He held onto her. "But," he allowed, "I think… well, there was a part of me—a small part—that hoped it was true. See, I wouldn't allow myself to kill my own child, and putting it up for adoption would only be a little better, so we'd have to keep it. That small part of me wanted it."

There came a slight sniff from the warm body in his arms, but when she sat up to look him in the eye, clasping his hand, her eyes were dry, if a little red-rimmed. "Don't be mad at me."

He stared at her in bewilderment. "Jenn, why would I be mad at you?"

"Because… when I first realized what was going on, on my way to the pharmacy… I prayed _so hard_ for this to be real. I knew we couldn't logically have the baby, but I wanted it anyway." She gave an unfeeling smile, a smile that Bruce was pained to see on her face. "I guess it doesn't matter, since it came to nothing. God knows better than we do, after all."

He gathered her into his arms again, holding her tightly. She didn't resist. "I'm sorry, Jenn." A few minutes passed, and then she spoke once more.

"If it had been a boy, I think he would have been like me. I was a crazy child." He sighed. He wished she'd quit talking about it—she was just refreshing the pain. "If she was a girl, though," she continued thoughtfully, ignoring his sigh, "she'd have been like you. You were quiet, Alfred tells me. Almost worshipped the quiet, as a matter of fact."

He made a sound of affirmation as he became conscious of the fact that he didn't hear any sort of sadness in her tone, and eventually came to a realization. Talking about it wasn't relieving the pain, it was dispelling it. It was a sort of catharsis for her, apparently, so he held her close and listened to her quiet voice, almost hypnotic in the quiet night.

"If we'd known each other as kids, we probably wouldn't have liked each other," she mused, her eyes shut. "I was loud and bossy, you were… the opposite. I'd have thought you were a sissy. You'd have called me…"

"A tomboy, probably," he said, recognizing his cue.

There was actually a smile in her voice when she responded. "I like tomboys, but since I was one, I guess I'm biased. Anyway… know what I lived in from ages six to eight?"

He raised an eyebrow, though in her current position, with her head rested against his chest, she couldn't see. "Not in a house?"

"Definitely not. I lived in trees." He gave a soft snort, and she giggled softly. "Mama said I could climb before I could walk. That was an exaggeration, but just about true. You should have seen the splinters I came home with day after day."

She gave a sudden laugh, and his stomach jumped a little at the sound. This really was therapeutic. "Want to know what our next door neighbor—Mr. John, I think—said one day when he saw me in a tree?"

"What?" he asked readily, looking down at the top of her head. She tilted her head back to look up at him, a small grin on her face.

"He said he really hadn't believed in the Evolution theory until he saw how much time I spent in trees. Only logical explanation, he said, was that we'd come from monkeys." She laughed again, quieter. "He said he kept expecting to see a tail poking out the back of my pants."

Bruce chuckled slightly and she tilted her head down again, her tone taking on a more sober twist. "Mama loved things like that. Laughed her head off when I told her. I remember the day she was murdered… I'd wanted to tell her something like that."

He'd never heard this story before. She took a shaking breath, and after a minute ventured forward again. "I thought she was asleep at first, or maybe that was just me wishing. I just saw the back of her head first, on the sofa, then I realized the rest of her wasn't laying down. She was sort of twisted across the floor… the blood was staining everything.

"You should have heard me scream. I screamed for so long, then my neighbors ran over, and then came the crying. I cried for _hours, days,_ maybe, Bruce, it—" She cut herself off for a long time. Finally, she said carefully, "When your parents were killed… did you cry?"

He nodded before answering. Her story was stirring the heartache still hidden beneath the desire for vengeance, the ancient pain. His voice was slightly rough when he spoke. "Yes. I sat next to them for an hour, Jenn—wasn't able to get up and go for help. Finally, someone found us, and I wasn't sobbing, but… the tears wouldn't stop. I didn't want them to, either, 'cause when the crying stops…"

"The emptiness starts," she answered quietly. She knew how it felt, he realized, to have a loved one ripped away from her as a child. "You just feel so empty, 'cause you can't cry anymore, and that sadness has eaten everything else up. Then comes the anger, then the hatred. You keep trying to fill up that pit in you with whatever you can."

He nodded. She was tracing his path now, and he knew how _she'd_ dealt with the similar feelings—she took it out on her father, the man who, immediately after her mother's murder, had dragged her away from all that was familiar. She expelled the rage in short bursts at a time. By the time she was in her mid-teens, she'd given revenge up as a lost cause and her father was the only recipient of her hatred.

In Bruce's case, though, it had grown, festered. He was unable to lash out at people around him continually, because they cared about him and he refused to make them hate him, and thus lose the last people that loved him.

His desire for revenge had grown into something monstrous, but it hadn't necessarily made him a monster. He'd been given a gift and a curse. Since he'd first understood that, he knew that things weren't going to change.

Jenn broke the silence after another moment of brooding quiet. "And right now, remembering the sight of my mother's body, I know _exactly_ why you do what you do. I know that the city needs you, and I know I can't solicit you for myself alone. Half of you, maybe, but Batman will always be a part of you."

This was sounding uncomfortably like the speech Rachel Dawes had given him a year and a half ago. He shifted in his seat, and as if sensing his uneasiness, Jenn spoke again, a smile in her voice. "Don't worry, Bruce. It's enough for me, I promise. It's only human to want more than you have, but I have what I need. I'm not jealous."

She sounded honest, so he let himself relax a bit again. Her fingertips traced a bruise that covered almost half his forearm, and he reminded himself that he couldn't shed his jacket at work tomorrow—someone could see the enormous purple discoloration beneath his sleeve and freak out. Jenn smiled, her thoughts apparently taking the same course as his: "I wonder what people at work would think if they saw that?"

"They never do," Bruce remarked.

"They'd probably think that I abuse you."

Bruce laughed shortly. "I think there's a hotline for that."

Jenn sat up and tugged at his hand. "Come on. It must be four in the morning; [ **Serially** ] we should get to bed."

Bruce followed, feeling the weariness coat his bones the second he got up. It had been a long night and he doubtless had longer ones ahead. For now, though, his troubles were alleviated.

* * *

"Your hair wasn't wet last night."

Bruce had opened his eyes to find Jenn staring at him, the side of her face resting on the back of her hand, and after a moment passed, she'd ventured forth with that arbitrary comment, making him lift an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"Well, usually when you come in after the night's over, you've had a shower down in the cave and your hair's sort of damp. Last night, it wasn't, and you didn't smell bad, so you must have gotten caught up downstairs."

Bruce nodded, debating on whether or not to trouble her with the case. Eventually, he decided she could take it, and said quietly, "We think there's a new serial killer in town."

Her eyebrows creased. "Rapist or sicko?"

"No to the first, maybe to the second," he said, sitting up and yawning, then draping his arms around his bent knees. She turned over on her back, pillowing her head on her arms.

"So he leaves some sign linking the scenes?"

Bruce nodded, looking at the curtained window, which beams of sunlight strove to penetrate, soaking in around the edges and illuminating the room slightly. "A deep gash in the jugular, almost the same size every time—and the same drug in the women's bloodstream. All the bodies have been found in alleys, too, but good luck trying to make a pattern out of the locations."

"Could be a hitman," Jenn suggested. "That's his signature move—putting a knife into the person's neck."

"I thought about that," he allowed, turning his head to look down at her, "but it seems more like a serial killer to me. Usually, people don't put hits out on pretty girls in their late teens, early twenties."

"Ohhh." She thought for a moment, and then nodded. "You're right. So it's probably a guy?"

"Probably. If women kill, it's usually men or children, not each other." He gave her a sideways look, referencing Sonja, and she lifted an eyebrow at him in acknowledgement before returning her mind to the subject.

"Why the neck?" she mused quietly. "Kind of seems like the heart or the head would be a better place. More surface area, more of a likelihood of hitting a damaging spot. Hitting the jugular on the first try's a bit tricky, isn't it?"

"I'd think so," he said. "Anyway, I'm going to take a further look tonight, if I can manage it. The streets are going insane with what happened a couple of nights ago."

She shook her head. "Things better get sorted out soon. Hostage situations shouldn't be enough to turn the city upside down."

"But a dead commissioner…" Bruce lifted an eyebrow at her.

"Well, if the police department wasn't so snarled into knots in the first place, they wouldn't have this problem," Jenn said with a slight scowl. "Corruption's touched everything."

He reached out and gently touched her on the arm, speaking earnestly. "There are good men there, Jenn. They'll take care of things."

She relaxed a little. "I know." She tossed him a wry, sideways smile. "We have the most wonderful pillow talk, don't we?"

He gave a short bark of laughter and rolled off the bed, starting the drill of pushups. Jenn pulled herself out of bed and went to brush her teeth.

**Chapter Fifteen**

Jenn's cell phone rang later that day as she was driving to work. She checked the phone's screen: **UNKNOWN CALLER** was displayed boldly across it. She answered it, not without a sense of foreboding. "Jenn Wayne."

"You shouldn't have returned." Malachi's voice, grating and unwelcome, sounded in her ear. "Soon you're going to force my hand. The longer you're around him, the riskier things get for you."

Jenn's patience with this man, small in measure already, had just about run out. "The riskier they get for _you,_ you mean," she contradicted, voice raised. "I'm safer with Bruce than I was on my own and it pisses you off, doesn't it?"

He howled with laughter, sending a prickle down her spine despite the unusual brightness (for Gotham, anyway) of the day. "Jennifer, pet," he said when he finally managed to calm down, "you're worse off with him than you would be anywhere else. He's blinded you all over again, where on your own you'd have eventually come to see. That just means things are going to be set into motion sooner than they would have."

"Oh, joy," said Jenn dryly, her attention divided between her stalker and traffic. "I don't suppose I could get you to tell me when that will be?"

"No. I'm _crazy_ , not foolish."

"Do you _realize_ how creepy it is that you acknowledge your insanity?" Jenn asked, shuddering despite the lighthearted tone of her question. Malachi chortled.

"We're all insane, Jennifer, in one way or another. Mine's just a little more conventional than, say, yours would be, or that old butler of Wayne's."

Jenn slammed on the brakes. Cars flowed around her, horns honked and people shouted, but she wanted to give her full, undivided attention to this man. "All right, I want you to listen to me _very_ thoroughly."

"Careful, you almost caused a fender bender."

She didn't let this eerie comment dissuade her. He could stalk her and be as creepy as he wanted, but when he started talking about Alfred, that was when she drew the line. "Don't you _ever_ talk about Alfred again _._ If you so much as reference him in passing, if you _glance_ at him, I'll _never_ speak to you again, you son of a bitch. I'll refuse to answer the phone. Trust me, it wouldn't be that hard."

There was a long silence, during which Jenn started driving again to the tune of jeers. She didn't care; she'd driven in Louisiana before and this was a piece of cake compared to that. Finally, Malachi slowly said, "I suppose… we could come to an agreement there."

Jenn felt a quiet sense of elation. She had some form of power over Malachi now, though he'd doubtless find a way out of it. Sure enough: "But it's for your own good. I need to be able to talk to you to prepare you for what's to come."

This man was one of the creepiest people she'd ever held a conversation with, if not _the_ creepiest. She sighed heavily. "All right, let's go basic for a minute. How old are you?"

"What _is_ age?" he mused. "It's a number assigned to you, judging the years spent on this earth. It isn't _this_ earth that matters; therefore age is irrelevant."

"Over thirty-five, then," she concluded. He laughed at her, a grating, scratchy sound. She ignored it. "Family?"

"My family refuses to embrace the truth."

"Hm," she murmured, thinking. He didn't say anything, just let her hear his quiet breathing. She gave a harsh sigh. "Are you part of a cult?"

"A cult isn't real. A cult is a group of men gratifying themselves, trying to quench their unquenchable greed. I show the truth, and soon, I'll be rewarded for it."

"Yep, you're part of a cult. Or maybe you're trying to start one. You need to work on the recruiting process; I'm not impressed."

"Your cynicism is getting very irritating."

"You can't deal with that?" she asked, feigning innocence.

"Of course I can. I just wish you'd take things seriously, because this _is_ important."

"Is the world going to end?"

"Not necessarily."

"Then I'm not really bothered." Jenn hung up on him, deciding that the traffic was getting too bad for her to continue to hold the conversation. He didn't try to call back, so she figured that he got the point, for now at least.

Later, she tried to re-trace the call, tried to get the number, but her efforts were to no avail.

* * *

A glass shattered against the wall, but there was something deliberate about the actions of the man who'd hurled it. He didn't show his anger; the throw had been a carefully calculated move to make his hirelings _pay attention._

He had their interest now. He was angry, yes, but refused to display it, taking an extra second to control his breathing. Finally, he said, "All I hear, gentlemen, are excuses. I have yet to understand why the Batman isn't six feet under the ground at this moment."

The men shifted uneasily in their seats. One of the braver ones spoke up. "They didn't expect the hostages to clear out as soon as he showed up. They weren't able to grab any of 'em and threaten to kill 'em if he didn't cooperate."

"I've heard that one before," said the leader with feigned patience. "Feed me something new."

There was an uncomfortable silence, and finally, one of the smarter henchmen said quietly, "It was our fault. We planned things wrong, didn't stress the alternatives enough. There's no excuse for letting the guy work like that, so… I suppose we should be punished somehow."

The leader's face relaxed at this, and he actually smiled at the speaker. "That's the smartest thing I've heard all night. Just for that, you'll be fine." He glanced over at Christopher, standing next to him, who took his cue.

" _You,_ however—" Christopher turned to the first speaker, picking a gun up from the desk as he went. The guy barely had time to move before he shot him through the head, nearly blowing out the eardrums of everyone in the room with the noise of the gunshot in the confined room.

"Examples, gentlemen," Henry said, not even blinking, as Christopher placed the gun back on the desk. "I _have_ to make examples, or I lose control. I won't hesitate to kill any of you if you continue to fail. Now." He sat down behind his desk, ignoring the slumping body that was leaking blood on the carpet and the muted horror in the stares of his men. He pulled out his bottle of pills again and went through the odd ritual of taking them and following them up with a shot of alcohol, and then leaned forward.

"There was some coordination among the hostages, I think," he said thoughtfully, steepling his fingers. "Otherwise they wouldn't have made an immediate unionized effort to leave. A few here and there, certainly, but the rest would be too confused. That means that someone _knew_ that Batman was coming." He paused. " _Who_?"

"None of us were there, sir," said the smart one, judging by his appearance the least shocked of the rest. "If you think it's important, I'm sure we could arrange to speak to one of the men in the hospital."

The man behind the desk thought for a moment, his forehead creased. Finally, he nodded, slowly and deliberately. "Yes. It might be important, it might not, but we won't neglect it."

"I'll take care of it," Christopher volunteered quietly. Henry nodded, dismissing them.

* * *

Bruce was in the Batcave, preparing for the night ahead as he waited for it to get suitably dark enough for him to leave, and his interest was currently occupied by the check he'd run for Meredith Fille. Her name had turned up nothing, obviously, but it had been worth another try. There was no criminal record, so he couldn't run her prints, and he was reduced to the much more time-consuming and tedious image scan.

He'd entered a photo of her in the computer and hundreds of similar results from all over had popped up. He had to manually go through them, as they all matched on certain points but only the human eye could distinguish which was the same person as the glorified Gotham model.

He had to admit, where formerly she'd just been an annoyance scratching at the back of his mind, now he was genuinely curious. People didn't just appear out of nowhere; she had to have a past. The fact that she'd just popped up and he was having such a hard time figuring out her background was grating on his nerves.

He sat back, frustrated. This was too time-consuming—he still had to go over the crime scene photos one more time, and that was _before_ leaving for the night's work. A thought struck him, and he squinted at the screen, lifting an eyebrow.

As if his mind had been read, he heard footsteps behind him, and turned his head to see Jenn, toting a plate. "Hey. Alfred was busy, so I told him I'd come down here and try to persuade you to eat this before you go." On the plate was an appetizing-looking sandwich, but Bruce was too busy to eat.

"Hey—I'm glad you showed up; I needed some help," he said, glancing up at her as she stopped next to his chair, setting the plate on the desk and lifting an eyebrow, first at him, then at the computer screen.

"Oh, really? What's going on _here_?"

He pointed at the screen. "I'm working on finding out who Meredith _really_ is. Her name didn't turn anything up, so I've had to resort to images."

She studied him for a minute. "You had another run-in with her, didn't you?"

Eyes fixed on the screen, he growled, "That woman is _crazy._ "

Jenn smiled. "So you want me to filter through these while you scour the city for evildoers?"

He glanced up at her. "It's tedious and time-consuming, I'm not going to lie—but it needs to be done. I mean, I don't think she's a serious threat, but you're never going to guess what she decided to do _now_." Jenn raised her eyebrows in silent question to him, and he nodded. "She's turned to _crime_ to get my attention." At her disbelieving laughter, he said, "Oh, it gets better. A couple of nights ago, I got a little… rough with her, when she wouldn't quit stealing, and she was all enchanted because it was our first fight."

Jenn gripped the corner of the table for support. "Are you… are you serious?" she gasped through her laughter.

"Yeah, unfortunately."

"You… didn't hurt her _too_ bad, did you?" she asked, making a valiant effort to straighten up.

" _No_ ," he said, lowering his eyebrows. "Of course not. I mean, she's breaking the law, so a little roughing-up was justified, but she's really a silly little girl underneath whatever face she's putting on. Or so I _think._ I need to figure out her past before I can really decide that she's not a threat."

"And you don't have time to do it right now." Jenn paused, glanced at the plate, and then said, "All right, but I've got a condition."

"What is it?" asked Bruce distractedly, staring at the screen again.

"You've got to eat this. You _do_ know it's healthy to have three meals a day, don't you?"

"I eat plenty," he said, mildly annoyed.

"No, you don't," she contradicted. "Enough so that you're not starving, yeah, but you don't space things out, so your blood sugar's all wobbly. That's not good for you, so yes, I'm joining Alfred in his never-ending quest to get you to eat a sandwich."

Bruce sighed. He felt like eating at this point would simply slow him down, and he really did want to get to work—but he needed this search done, and he _did_ have a few minutes while he was looking over the pictures. "Fine," he grumbled, and vacated the seat, gesturing for Jenn to get started.

"Excellent," she said gladly, planting a brief kiss on his lips, and then sat down. "So you just want me to make a list of the women that _really_ look like her?"

"Yeah, I've already started it," he said, pointing with one hand and picking up the plate with the other. "Just add to it—only if they're identical or close to it—and I'll look into them more thoroughly later."

"Got it," she said, eyes already glued to the screen. Bruce headed to another workbench nearby, taking a bite as he went, and settled on a stool, retrieving the photos and spreading them out.

Some people—well, most people—would probably find it unappetizing to eat at the same time they were looking at pictures of dead bodies and the rooms in which dead bodies were found. Bruce didn't really give it much thought. He was focused on his work, too concentrated to really pay attention to what he was eating.

What was this guy out for? It was nothing sexual, as their bodies had been untouched. It wasn't a robbery—he'd left everything, jewelry, wallets… he'd only taken the IDs of the last three victims. There was no brutalization of the bodies, other than that stab wound that penetrated the jugular.

His forehead furrowed in frowning concentration as he picked up a picture in which there was a close-up of the gash. There was bruising on either end, which surprised him—a stab wound should have equal bruising around where the blade had gone, or none. Taking a closer look at the tips of the wound, he saw a slight roundness to them where it should have just been a slit. Almost like the edges of the blade had been circular…

He leaned back and brought his hand to his mouth in thought, staring into space as a new, crazy thought hit him. Incredulous, he reviewed the facts. Major blood loss, almost all of it unaccounted for. All of the murders had occurred during the night. The killing wound—the _only_ wound—was delivered to the neck, an unusual place to stab someone… if it even _was_ a stab that had killed them.

"You've got to be kidding me," he said out loud.

He heard Jenn move, somewhere behind him. "What is it?"

"Com'ere," he said, gesturing for her to come to the bench even while staring hard at the pictures. She obliged, coming to stand next to him, and he pointed. "Look at that carefully."

She didn't seem reluctant at all to study the photographed dead body, bending over and brushing her hair behind her ears in order to look. After a moment, she glanced at him. "Yeah?"

"Look. Does anything seem… off to you about these wounds?"

"Um…"

"Keep looking."

She bent to look a bit harder, and then lifted an eyebrow at him. He nodded at her, and she laid a finger on the end. "This should be a little thinner than the middle and just sort of taper off, but it rounds out instead."

"Right, right," he said, grabbing her wrist and looking at her. "These women bled to death. The murders were committed after dark. The killing wound was a gash in the neck, an unusual place to attack, and other than that they were pretty much untouched. What does that make you think of?"

She looked at him with a lifted eyebrow, then glanced doubtfully back at the picture, then at him again. "Vampires."

"Exactly," he said, letting her go and bending over the pictures again.

"But, Bruce—vampires don't exist."

"I know they don't. I'm thinking it's someone who's imitating them. I think that there were originally two puncture wounds in the neck, and then the guy covered them up by making a deeper gash connecting them. Look, see here—" He picked up the picture of the victim from the first crime scene and pointed. "This was his trial and error scene. He cut the gash too long—see the little round marks in the middle? They're too obvious."

Instead of looking quite so skeptical, now Jenn was nodding slowly. "You know, I've seen several documentaries on people who actually _think_ they're vampires. Or just people who _really_ love blood. It's happened more often in the last few centuries that people actually _drink_ blood than we think."

"It's still a theory," he said. "I'm heading out right now to see if I can find more evidence. But it's definitely a possibility."

"Okay. Good luck. I'm going to get back to work," she said, and turned to return to the image check. Bruce got up and left to get ready for the night, leaving a half-eaten sandwich in his wake.

* * *

He had an agenda tonight, so as he worked, he tried to move over to the part of town where he needed to be. It proved to be a little difficult when two different purse snatchers led him on a chase for a few blocks, but he righted himself soon enough.

He was halfway across town, perched on a rooftop as he scanned the blocks below for any misdemeanor, when she arrived. She came from the roof exit, surprising him, so he didn't have time to run, only to prepare.

"Well, well," she said with a smile, coming near. He backed up, thinking that if this went on for much longer, he'd have to consider taking out a restraining order. "Look what the _bat_ dragged in."

He cringed. This was even worse than usual. Quickly, he stood up straight, realizing that he might as well make use of the opportunity. It was easer than sifting through a pile of photos, at any rate, even though he might get lies. "Let's just talk for tonight, all right?"

She looked thrilled, and for a second he felt a flash of pity for her, but quickly hardened his resolve—he'd seen where pity had gotten him last time. "I knew you'd warm up to me," she purred, advancing further. He held out his hands.

"Not so close," he warned. "I want to talk to you about your family. Where are they?"

"My family?" Meredith looked confused, but that was probably because he was talking about her family, instead of her or himself. "Why?"

He switched tacks. "Well, before you got famous in Gotham, you had to have lived somewhere. Where was it?"

Now, she _definitely_ looked confused, and somehow, he didn't think it was because he was discussing unexpected topics. "Um…" she said, putting a hand to her head before seeming to recover slightly. "Who cares? I live for today. And _today_ … I want you."

"Well, I can't just start things with someone I know nothing about." Okay, he felt a little guilty leading her on like that, but he got the feeling that he'd stumbled on a side of her he wasn't meant to see, and that it might help with explaining _her._ "Have you lived in Gotham all your life?"

The confusion disappeared. "Yes," she said adamantly. He judged her for a moment. She didn't look like she was lying, and he was generally pretty good at deciphering lies from the truth.

"So where'd you live before you became a model?"

And just like that, the confusion was back, accompanied by a certain amount of anger. "That's none of your business," she said huffily. "Look, I thought you wanted to talk, really _talk,_ but if you're just going to ask these stupid questions, I'm leaving."

She turned and stalked off. Batman relaxed a bit, glad for the respite—he really did have a lot to do tonight—but not foolish enough to think that she'd stay mad. She'd be back again. Until then, though, he had a crime scene to look at—and a new guess involving her that he needed to examine further. Stepping to the ledge, he dropped off the roof.

**Chapter Sixteen**

The yellow crime scene tape had been ripped from where it stretched across the locked door of the tiny apartment, so Batman was saved from having to duck or make his way over the barrier, instead just picking the lock, pushing the door open, and stepping in.

The victim's name was Amber Flynn. She'd been a nineteen-year-old college student, and her body had been found when her friend and co-worker at Blockbuster had stopped by to find out why Amber hadn't come to work. She was definitely the killer's first mistake—for one, she'd been the only one both killed and left in her apartment. The others were dumped in an alley, the primary crime scene was undiscovered, and two still hadn't been identified.

He turned on the light, casting a dim glow over the room. The place was almost literally a hole in the wall. Every inch was crowded with furniture and clutter, papers, a small TV, one or two end tables, a bureau. There was a fairly clear area in the midst of it all, though, where more tape marked where Amber had probably been killed. A large spot of blood stained the floor, turning it dark reddish-brown.

There was a fluffy red rug beneath one of the end tables, and he crouched to look closely at it. At first, he was unable to see anything in the dim light, but as his eyes sharpened their focus, he became aware of three or four short, thin black hairs resting on the red carpet fibers. He'd guess that they came from a cat, but he needed to check to be sure. Opening the forensics compartment of his belt, he picked the hairs up and placed them in a thin plastic tube, corking it and returning it to its place. That done, he looked around

There was a broken lamp beside the bureau, probably knocked off during a struggle. He stooped and picked through the shards very carefully, trying not to dislodge anything too much.

He was about to stand again and move on, but something almost the same color and texture as the off-white broken glass but of a different, fuller shape caught his eye. Carefully, he reached for it and picked it up.

It took him a second, but after a moment he realized that he was holding a fang. It was splintered slightly on the end, as if it had been knocked from its place, and was made of some sort of strong glass.

It was tucked away along with the hairs, him grimly noting that his vampire theory was getting stronger and stronger by the second. He could imagine the killer panicking, looking for the displaced fang and eventually giving up as his time ran out—and then CSI, later, unwilling to move anything and therefore unable to spot the fang from where it was located beneath the glass.

He looked around for another quarter of an hour, but didn't find anything new. He wasn't at all discouraged—he'd found more than he'd dared to hope for. With a new resolution in his shoulders, he locked the door of the apartment and then climbed out of the window, heading for the rooftop.

* * *

When he returned to the cave a few hours later, Jenn was there, at the computer. He didn't say anything to her as he went past to strip off the armor and get in the built-in shower on the other side of the cave, but after he was fairly clean and dressed in relaxed clothing, he went to her side.

"What's going on?" he asked. "You haven't been down here this whole time, have you?"

She yawned, checking the computer clock. "No. A few hours ago I stopped for a while, but I came back down here eventually. Look, I want to show you something."

"Okay," he said, watching as she pulled up one of the many pictures she'd sifted through in the past few hours. As soon as he saw it, he knew why she'd wanted to show it to him. It was Meredith, that much was obvious—a little younger and thinner, but Meredith all the same. Either that, or an exact look-alike. "Looks like you found her," he said with a good deal of satisfaction.

"I think so. This girl's name is Catherine Nolan. Her parents reported her missing from Little Rock, Arkansas, at age twenty—that was six months ago."

"When did Meredith get her first spread?" Bruce asked, eyes fixed on the screen as he evaluated the points of the girl's face. There was no doubt in his mind now—she was the same.

"About five months past," Jenn said, mentally counting. "I think that's what Mrs. Landlass said. So, the timeline's right."

"Yes, it is," Bruce said thoughtfully, straightening up. Jenn saw his pensive expression and lifted an eyebrow at him.

"What?"

"I talked to her again tonight. I asked her some questions about herself, and she seemed determined to convince me that she'd lived here, in Gotham, all her life. It's strange, though—I'm pretty good at telling when someone's lying to me, and she didn't have the look or attitude of a liar."

"Where are you going with this?"

"I think she _wasn't_ lying, not consciously. I think she really thinks that she's never lived anywhere else."

"You think she's… what, brainwashed?"

"I've seen weirder things," Bruce said briefly. "We need to talk to her agent." The parents of the missing Catherine were, at first thought, the ideal ones to contact, but after examining that thought closer, he realized that they'd probably be so desperate to get their daughter back that they'd immediately claim it was her. Even if he was fairly certain Catherine and Meredith _were_ the same person, he wanted to be a little more thorough before arranging for her parents to come find her.

Jenn nodded, getting up from the chair with a slight groan as her cramped muscles stretched out. "You're Bruce Wayne. I'm the former Jenn Redgrove. I'm pretty sure we could arrange a meeting. I'll do it," she volunteered, giving him a hint of a smile. "I think a woman's interest in fashion would probably be dismissed more easily than a man's."

He nodded knowingly. The last thing he needed were tabloids advertising him as a fashion buff—one thing led to another, and soon they'd be saying he was gay. He was all for a bad reputation to disguise who he _really_ was, but some things just went too far.

"It's three in the morning," he said, shoulders slightly stooped with weariness. "Let's head up."

* * *

"Mrs. Wayne! It's wonderful to meet you!"

Chase Miller, Meredith Fille's modeling agent, was impossibly tall and thin, blonde, aging but still trying to appear young, and dressed in flamboyant, avant-garde clothing. She talked quickly, in staccato beats, and had the general air of a woman who was used to getting her way.

Her eyes slid over Jenn's shoulder as she shook the younger woman's hand, taking an on an admiring quality as they landed on Bruce, who'd been drifting around the room and had eventually settled on standing in front of the window, looking down at the street. "And you've brought your husband along! Delightful."

Jenn and Bruce had discussed things before heading over. They decided that he should take on the general attitude of a husband dragged along on his wife's errands, rather than showing any particular interest in what was going on—that might put Chase on her guard. Instead, he'd listen acutely even while pretending to be bored while Jenn investigated Meredith.

"Yes—he'd rather not be here, I'm afraid," said Jenn with a slight smile. "We've got other errands to run, so—"

"I understand completely," said Chase immediately. "You know, I was quite startled when my assistant told me that _Jennifer Wayne,_ nee Redgrove, wanted to speak to me. I said to myself, 'What on earth could _she_ want?' You've never seemed to show an active interest in fashion, and I was thrilled to schedule an appointment with you. Now, _what_ is the reason for your sudden interest?"

Jenn raised an eyebrow briefly throughout the course of Chase's monologue and worked to repress a smile, wondering what was going through Bruce's head. "Actually, I wanted to ask you a few things about one of your models," she said.

Chase got an indulgent smile on her face. "You're probably curious about Oliver. No _wonder_ your husband's in a bad mood—Oliver's quite the sex machine, isn't he? Definitely the most popular among the ladies—"

"No, that's not it at all," said Jenn, now visibly trying to restrain her grin. Carefully regaining control over her facial muscles and forbidding herself to look at Bruce for fear of the expression she'd find on his face, which would doubtless cause her to laugh aloud, she said, "It's about Meredith Fille."

At that, a subtle change came across Chase's face. It wasn't particularly noticeable, but Jenn, who'd been watching for it, spotted it—there was a new note of caution, also a hint of alarm, but she carefully schooled her features into a smile again. "Really? She's one of my most popular models right now, and I can't say I don't know why. Really—the woman seems like she was _born_ on the catwalk."

"Yes—well, where she was born is a part of it," Jenn said casually. "You see, I've been following her career for a while; I've met her a few times, and I find myself _very_ curious about her. I can't find _anything_ about her life before she got famous."

That expression crossed Chase's face again, and this time it was a little harder for her to get rid of. "Well, she's a very private person. She doesn't much like to talk about her past."

"Nonetheless," said Jenn innocently, "there are a few things that are standard for famous people that just… aren't there for her."

"Like?" asked Chase, doubtless getting edgier.

"Her home town, for one?" asked Jenn. Bruce casually turned, just a little, so he was able to see Chase out of the corner of his eye.

"She's lived here all her life," Chase said glibly. "I discovered her about six months ago, when we were both waiting for the train. Ah, she was so beautiful—you've seen her, so tall, and those eyes of her are just _gorgeous._ And her hair! That's a shade you can't get with a dye. I gave her my card, and a month later she was on the cover of her first magazine. _That's_ fast progress for you." She seemed quite proud.

Jenn wasn't about to relent. "What about family?" she asked, pushing Chase out of her newly regained comfort zone. "Where are they?"

"She's an only child, and her parents are dead," said Chase, blinking. "It's a tender subject. She doesn't like to talk about it." She was getting more and more irritable with each second that passed.

"What about her name?"

"What about it?" said Chase, now undoubtedly testy. Her pleasure at meeting Jenn had faded to tolerance, and that was going fast.

"Well, 'Fille'—it sounds like it's been changed. What was it originally?"

"Mrs. Wayne, Meredith's name has never been changed," said Chase, crossing her arms. "Now, I'm sorry, but I have another appointment to dash off to. Perhaps I'll see you again?"

"Maybe," said Jenn, realizing that she wasn't going to get anything else out of this, and she shook Chase's hand. "Come on, Bruce."

He tailed her obediently, both playing a role that differed from their real natures—her the commanding wife, him the quietly whipped husband. They waited till they'd exited the building before they spoke.

"She was lying," Bruce said. "A lot."

"About what?" asked Jenn. She'd been able to figure as much herself—really, Chase was a terrible liar.

"All of it. Everything she said once you started asking questions. Meredith _hasn't_ lived here her whole life, her parents _aren't_ dead, and she _has_ changed her name. I'm sure of it."

"Well, why would she lie?" asked Jenn. "What's wrong with Meredith having a past?"

"Either Meredith doesn't want to be found and Chase is covering up for her," said Bruce meditatively, "or…"

"Meredith's been brainwashed into forgetting where she came from and Chase doesn't want anyone to remind her," Jenn guessed.

"I'm leaning more towards a psychotic fugue. But, yes, that's the main gist."

"Psychotic fugue? My general psych is a little rusty."

"Well, technically, I think it's called a dissociative fugue—it's a _form_ of psychosis. It's when a person experiences a complete breakdown, just vanishes from home and pops up somewhere different, thinking they're someone else. They don't remember who they were or anyone from their past. They just start life in a new city," Bruce explained.

"How do they usually end up?"

"Well, usually, something jogs their memory. The façade of their new life is torn away and they remember their past." Bruce paused pensively. "They usually don't last this long, though. Days, but not months—though it's happened in the past… I think we should probably jog Meredith's memory."

"Ah, right," Jenn said with a resolute nod. "Maybe anonymously send her parents a magazine with her on front, along with a note telling them about the situation?"

"With a little polishing, that should work," said Bruce.

"Good," said Jenn. "I'll take care of it. Hopefully, you'll only have to ward Meredith off till the end of the week."

"In the meantime," Bruce said, "I have something else I need your help with."

* * *

The receptionist for the tenth floor of Gotham City Medical was on break, her desk unmanned. The head nurse was on break, and so when Christopher Thornton walked out of the elevator, no one informed him that he must be in the wrong place; that this floor was only for criminal and/or suspected psych patients.

He didn't break his stride, turning left, towards the criminal section as he straightened his jacket. He cut a smart figure, dressed in an impeccably tailored black on white Armani, average height, medium-length brown hair that was tucked away behind his ears, and large, if ordinarily-colored, blue eyes. To complete his face, he possessed a prominent jaw that gave way to distinctive cheekbones. All in all, he looked to be a harmless man in his late twenties, which proved both a blessing and a curse (depending on the circumstances) when people underestimated him—after all, he had more than forty years to his name. He attributed it to never smoking, staying in shape, and taking care of his skin.

He went to the end of the hall and, with ease, opened a door that ordinarily should be locked. This door led into another hall, a pair of armed security guards watching a barred door at the end of it. Christopher strolled towards them, his hands fitted neatly, purposefully into his pockets.

The thing that Christopher had noticed most often when dealing with security guards was that they truly _were_ rent-a-cops. Most of them weren't paid enough to speak of, and so any form of bribery that was offered to them would almost certainly be accepted, no questions asked.

Henry was counting on him, and so he'd been very careful to choose the most corrupt out of the number of guards that had a shift guarding the door. It proved slightly more difficult than it might have been when the cops interfered, posting some of their number at the hospital instead of leaving the 'standard' security guards at work. Still, cops were corrupt, too, just like most of the authority in this town.

He'd had a chat with them earlier. The arrangements were already made, and so when he approached, he handed over a gleaming money clip, stuffed with neatly folded bills. "Boss sends his regards."

Mr. Rice, a sneering, cynical man with a skin problem and obsessively-kept blonde hair, accepted it surreptitiously and unlocked the door. "Well, then. In you go, Chris."

Christopher gave a short, forced-sounding laugh, and then within seconds had Rice up against the wall, one arm barred against his throat. "The _name_ is Mr. Thornton; Christopher if you know me. You do _not_ know me." As quickly as the onslaught had started, it was over as Christopher let him go and stared him down, daring him to move. "Keep your familiarities to yourself."

He started to go into the room, and as Rice glared and straightened his collar, turned back. "And if you want anymore where that money came from, you'll keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. Knock if there's anyone on the way." Smoothly, he turned and walked into the room, quietly shutting the door behind him and leaving Rice to curse his name to the depths.

There were two men in the room, but one was still comatose most of the time, waking up only to scream in terror, apparently of the belief that the Batman was just waiting for him. Christopher couldn't really blame him; he figured that getting attacked by a giant bat would mess _him_ up a little, too.

However, that wasn't who he was here for. He turned to the other bed, where another man lay sleeping restlessly, his unbroken arm handcuffed to the bed. He looked fairly uncomfortable, a broken leg propped up on a pillow and his face swollen with bruises, and Christopher let a smile touch his mouth before saying loudly, "Sykes."

The man jerked awake—he looked rather thug-like, with a shaved head and a tattoo of a skull just in front of his right ear. Christopher knew that appearances could be deceiving—he'd hand-picked this man for the mission of a few days ago and knew that he was very observant, which was why Christopher had chosen him to talk to.

"H-hey," he muttered, making as if to sit up, but stopped by the iron bracelet anchoring him in his place. He gave a growl of annoyance and reached up awkwardly with the other hand to wipe the sleep out of his eyes. "Can you believe this? Stuffed in a security wing with rent-a-cops griping outside. You come to spring me?"

"I'm afraid not," Christopher said, taking a couple of steps so that he was next to the bed. "The Boss sent me to get some inside information."

"Ugh," Sykes grunted. "I figured this'd happen. All right, whatchu want to know?"

"Well, we're most interested in why the mission failed. He doesn't want excuses; he had a man killed for as much the other night."

"Shit," said Sykes. Christopher didn't think it was important to tell him that _he_ had been the one to pull the trigger.

"Mm. What he's interested in are cold, hard facts, and where those fail, sound theories. None of us were there, though, so we can't exactly sit and brainstorm. So, what do _you_ think?"

Sykes paused to think. He worked his jaw; bit his lip—he tended to do a lot with his mouth when he was thoughtful or nervous. Christopher waited, albeit clearly edgily—after all, it wasn't as if he had all the time in the world. Eventually, Sykes spoke.

"Well, we were ready for Batman, but we figured we could take him on our own terms. You know, soon as he showed up we could grab some innocent little girl and shoot her to get his attention. But that didn't happen, 'cause the second he showed up, they all ran for it while we were busy shootin' at him."

"Yes," said Christopher, forcing a thin veneer of patience onto his face, "but how do you suppose they made a unified effort like that? I should think that the arrival of a monstrous vigilante would throw everyone into confusion."

"Yeah, it should, shouldn't it?" questioned Sykes thoughtfully, gnawing on his lip again. "Maybe someone knew."

"That's definitely the theory we're all leaning toward." Christopher arched a dark eyebrow. "Any idea _who_?"

Suddenly, Sykes's eyes narrowed, and Christopher leaned forward, attempting to keep his sudden delight off of his face. The man _knew_. This would please Henry. "Yeah," he said slowly. "You know me, right, Mr. Thornton?"

That was another reason Christopher liked Sykes. He might speak roughly, but he knew when to be respectful. "Yes, I do. I hired you myself, a year ago."

"Yeah, so you know I'm pretty observant. Well, in the beginning, there was a lot of chaos, so I didn't really see faces, but a while after things calmed down, after that crazy lady started screaming about going into labor—you know, I should have beaten her belly in with the butt of my gun. That'd show her."

"Yes, but please continue," Christopher said, a tad impatiently.

"Well, anyway, then I started noticing the people. Then, a few minutes later, there was a woman there that wasn't with the rest of them before."

"You think she came from another room?" questioned Christopher alertly.

"No…" said Sykes. "I'm not sure _where_ she came from. But she wasn't with us the whole time—believe me, I'd've noticed. She was the only woman in the room that was under thirty. If I was gonna bet on who it was that started tippin' people off, I'd bet on her, a hundred percent."

Christopher leaned over him, an intense gleam in his eyes. "Sykes, did you recognize her?"

Sykes squinted as he tried to get his memory to cooperate. "She married some weird-ass billionaire recently—it was all over the papers for a while, so yeah, her face was real familiar. Pretty girl; nothin' special, though."

"Ellen Chapman?"

"No… more recent than that," Sykes answered.

Christopher searched his memory. "Jenn Redgrove?"

Sykes' expression cleared immediately. "Yeah. That's been botherin' me for a _while._ Yeah, that was her—she married crazy Bruce Wayne, didn't she?"

Christopher was so jubilant that he leaned over and kissed Sykes hard on the forehead. Sykes protested immediately: "Hey, hey! Don't you get all fruity on me!"

Christopher laughed, drawing back. "Yes, Sykes, she _did_ marry crazy Bruce Wayne. And I think Boss will be _very_ pleased with this new bit of information."

"Why?" asked Sykes, perplexed. "The only thing we know is that she knew Batman was coming."

"Yes, and I believe he recruited her to spread the news… _personally._ That means she had contact with him at some point that night. It's not airtight, but it's better than anything else we've got." Christopher walked to the door, still smiling. "Thank you, Sykes. That was _very_ informative."

"Hey, man," said Sykes, rattling his handcuffs. "Mind giving me a hand with this?"

Christopher shot him a brief look of pity. "I'm afraid I can't, not today. We haven't arranged for that. But I plan on telling Boss how helpful you've been. It wouldn't surprise me if you find yourself in his good graces and out of here _very_ soon." He wasn't lying—Henry knew how futile it was to treat loyal subjects badly, despite his twisted ideas of who needed punishment and who didn't. Breeding faithfulness in his soldiers was far easier than making them discontent and killing them off, and then getting betrayed by one disgruntled person in the end.

"All right," Sykes said, settling back. "Hurry it up, though, would you? I'm bored out of my friggin' _mind._ "

Christopher laughed and left the room, stopping to pass another clip over, this time to Rice's silent partner. As he started back down the hall, someone came through the door on the other end—an orderly. Christopher kept it together.

"Hey," said the orderly, his brown eyes narrowed in suspicion as he and Christopher neared each other. "What's going on? This is the _secure_ _wing._ Why was that door unlocked?"

"I was lost; I found it that way," lied Christopher smoothly, continuing to walk. "These gentlemen set me straight and I'm headed in the right direction now."

"Hey, wait a minute—" said the orderly, reaching out and grabbing him by his sleeve as he walked past.

Christopher lost it. Immediately, he was on the man, seizing his head, and with a quick wrench of his powerful hands, broke the orderly's neck. The man crumpled to the ground as Christopher dropped him, and he sidestepped the body, brushing off of his sleeve. "Don't touch the suit," he growled down at the dead man.

That said, he turned to look at the gaping, horror-struck guards. "You're gonna want to get that body down to the morgue," he said helpfully, his tone suggesting that he _hadn't_ just killed another man in cold blood. "Otherwise, you're going to have some explaining to do, and it'll come to nothing, since any wise man wouldn't incriminate me."

He turned and strode down the hall, and, stopped by no one else, left the hospital.

**Chapter Seventeen**

Cody Hale was a young man, having joined the army at eighteen, then, after his stint there, came to the Gotham City police force. His belief in making a difference was still very strong, as was usual with young cops. Therefore, he often volunteered to take the tasks that many found tedious and pointless.

So, for the past few days, he'd been spending long shifts in a van in the bottom parking lot of Gotham City Medical, listening to the bugged rooms of the criminals involved in the hostage situation. It was endlessly boring work—at least, it would be to some. But Cody found that he had plenty to do while listening to the sounds of the men moving restlessly. He read. The silence, which might have driven other men crazy, was peaceful for him.

Today, though, something was different. Sykes was talking, and not to himself, as he tended to do when bored (and he was bored often). There was another voice. Quickly, he pushed record.

He listened with growing jubilation as the conversation played out, and then, as soon as the man Sykes had called Mr. Thornton left, he seized his phone. He waited breathlessly for someone to answer and then said, "This is Hale at Gotham Medical. Get Gordon down here, fast."

Thirty minutes later, Jim Gordon climbed into the back of the van. Cody greeted him excitedly. "Sir! Sykes has had a visitor. You told me to call you, so—"

"Good," Gordon said briefly, stooping to accommodate the low roof of the van. "I had a hunch that one of them'd be getting a visit soon. Show me what you've got."

"Okay," agreed Cody, breathless at the thought that they might just figure out who'd been behind this whole deal.

Gordon listened intently as the conversation progressed. The first point of interest for him was the name that was dropped—"Mr. Thornton." It wasn't familiar to him, but it was something to go on.

When Jenn Wayne was mentioned, though, Gordon's expression changed. He'd _known_ that letting Jenn go through with her escapade was a bad idea. Still, as the conversation continued, the gears in his mind were turning rapidly.

When the tape ended, Gordon squeezed Cody's shoulder. "Good work. We'll probably have you out here for a couple more days, make sure they didn't screw around with us—but I definitely think we've got something."

He opened the door and jumped out of the van, and then turned back to the young cop. "Make a few copies for the station."

"Yes, sir," said Cody obediently, immediately getting to work. Gordon watched in approval for a second, and then slid the door shut.

**break**

Gina Nolan straightened up from where she was watering the houseplants, watering can in hand and a curious look on her face. The doorbell had just sounded throughout the house, Henry was at work, and she wasn't expecting company. Still, the Nolans had neighbors aplenty, and very few of them were averse to dropping by unexpectedly for a gossip or to borrow something.

Setting the can on the floor, she wiped her hands on her apron and went to answer the door. There was a delivery man there, and even as she summoned a smile for him, internally she tried to remember if she was expecting a package. She wasn't.

"Mrs. Nolan?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow at her.

"Yes," she answered, smile at the ready.

"Sign here," he said, passing her his electronic clipboard. As she obliged, he commented casually, "First class, overnight shipping… somebody really wanted you to get this."

"Hmm," said Gina, forehead creased. As she handed over the clipboard, she asked, "Who's it from?"

"Somebody in Gotham City," he answered with a shrug, handing over a large padded envelope.

"Gotham?" she asked, now truly perplexed. "Should I be afraid that it's going to blow up in my face?"

He chuckled, turning to go. "I wouldn't worry about that. See ya."

"Goodbye," she called, and shut the door. Brow creased in thought, she carried the package to the kitchen, set it on the counter, cut on the light, and proceeded to examine it.

It was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Henry Nolan. The return address was neatly stamped—Redgrove, Inc. She'd never heard of it. She gnawed on her bottom lip and leaned against the counter, trying to decide whether to open the envelope or not—it was addressed to _both_ of them, meaning that she should possibly wait for her husband.

But… Henry was usually very content to let _her_ deal with the mail—he liked to keep to himself, not much interaction with other people. And Gina was, by nature, a very curious person. It took very little to convince her that she didn't need to wait, and so she tore open the package and tipped it, letting the contents slide into her hand.

It was what felt like a magazine, a piece of paper taped over the front cover—no, not a piece of paper, she realized, a note. Eyebrows lowered, she perused it.

_Mr. and Mrs. Nolan,_

_If the woman on the front of this magazine looks familiar to you, please give me a call at 817-555-3918._

_-Jenn Redgrove-Wayne_

Now more confused than ever, Gina pulled the note off of the cover and looked at the magazine. A few seconds later, she fainted.

* * *

Almost the moment Bruce walked through the door late in the afternoon, he was accosted by Alfred. The butler proceeded to inform him that Madam Jenn was downstairs, had been for hours, and refused to come up to eat.

Bruce, one eyebrow lifted high, asked, "What's wrong with her?"

"Absolutely nothing," Alfred said, "or so I believe. She's told me that she's doing something important and doesn't have _time_ to eat." Eyeing Bruce speculatively, he declared, "Sir, I believe she might be turning into _you._ "

Bruce chuckled and promised to try to get her to eat the sandwich Alfred had left for her downstairs, before heading down to the cave himself, undeniably curious. It was dark and cool down in the cave, the usual sound of bats moving around echoing throughout. Jenn was easy to find; she was on one of the computers, the blue glow lighting up her face.

She was so absorbed in what she was doing that she evidently didn't hear him approach, and so he announced his arrival with, "I've been informed that you're turning into me."

She jumped a little, turning to see his inquiring expression and then smiling and stretching out. "Hey."

"Hey," he said, bending down to kiss her. "What's going on?"

"Well, before we do that thing later on today, I decided to get a head start on it. I've been on the internet for a while looking up every vampire source available."

"Doesn't that get repetitive?" he questioned, lifting an eyebrow. His gaze fell on the plate undoubtedly left by Alfred, the sandwich still untouched, and fought a smile.

"Well, when I started, there was just the normal stuff you get on vampires—Dracula, Van Helsing, Spike the Bloody or whatever—but the deeper you dig, the more you get. You won't believe this next bit."

"Try me."

For answer, she brought up a window. "Check this out."

"Bloodlust?" he read aloud from the black and red page, on which a grisly icon of fangs and gushing blood rested in a position of prominence.

She nodded and clicked on the icon, which took her to a login screen. He lifted an eyebrow as she started to explain. "This is a community of people who _actually_ believe that they are or should be vampires."

"You're kidding."

"No, I swear, I'm telling the truth. I mean, not every _one_ , sure, but all the others revere vampires to an almost godlike status and respect the ones who think they are."

"All right," he said, sensing that she had more to show. "I'm listening."

"Well, I figured it wouldn't hurt to join up and look around, sort of get inside of their heads. So I've been reading up on their posts and making a few of my own." She turned back to the computer and typed in a username—"Skullata." He snorted and she shot him a sideways look. "Laugh all you want. I used to play the Legend of Zelda when I was a kid and it was the first thing that came to mind."

She typed in a password and logged in, then a series of clicks took them to the post she was looking for, one made by her, titled "Location Help." She leaned back and let him read.

_**Skullata** _ _: I'm located in Gotham here; wondering where's a good place to get my fangs. Can anyone help?_

_**Lady Sinestra** _ _: I don't know Gotham so well, so I can't help you. Wait for Weinstein or Guinevere. They live there._

_**FluidofLife** _ _: Mmm… I wish I could go back to Gotham. So many people there, and there's rarely any sun. It's a vampire haven. Nobody notices if anybody goes missing._

_**Weinstein** _ _: stupid noob_

_**FluidofLife** _ _: Me?_

_**Weinstein** _ _: no_

_**FluidofLife** _ _: Are you being sarcastic?_

_**Lady Sinestra** _ _: Don't ask him that! you won't be able to tell._

_**Guinevere** _ _: Nice job getting off-subject, guys. Skullata, I found that the best place to go is Batwings in the Narrows. It's a haven for those such as we. May your curse be light!_

_**Skullata** _ _: Thanks for the help._

Bruce lifted an eyebrow as he finished reading. "Definitely interesting," he said quietly, straightening up. "You have the name of a hangout, at least."

"And we know that these two people are Gotham-based," Jenn said. "I've been searching the forums for more and there are about seven people openly living in Gotham—four boys, three girls. Two of each are really young teenagers, so I think we can rule them out, but the remaining three are sort of revered as elders. They'd be Weinstein, Guinevere, and DavyDarkness."

"Do you get a bad vibe off of any of them?" he questioned. He knew that it was a slim chance that any of these people were actually the person that he was looking for, but he also knew that people cut of the same cloth tended to stick together. Possibly, one of these would know of him.

"Well, not particularly," she said, looking meditatively at the screen. "Weinstein's aggressive and rude to people he doesn't believe belong here, and seems pretty illiterate. Guinevere—she's _really_ into it. Reading over her posts, she seems really intelligent, but she irrationally just _believes_ this. It's like her own religion. She thinks she was turned a few years ago during a mugging—she's hinted towards a more detailed account of it, but I haven't been able to find it yet."

"What about the last one?"

"DavyDarkness? He's one of the nicer guys on the board. He's not on a lot but he sort of takes care of the 'fledglings,' as they call the newcomers."

"Hmm," Bruce said, straightening up. "I guess we'd better hit this place then, see if we can figure out something about this fang and who's been buying them." As she got up, he pointed at the sandwich. "Try to take a few bites of that, will you? You're about to drive Alfred to distraction up there; come on."

She laughed. "Now you know how it feels trying to get you to eat whenever you've found a new mystery." She picked up the sandwich and took a bite. "Want some?" she asked, offering it to him. He shook his head.

"No thanks. I'll wait for dinner."

"Supper."

" _Dinner,_ " he said, crossing his arms and lifting an eyebrow at her.

"Supper," she said casually, leaning back against the desk. "I can do this all night."

"Dinner," he fired back. "You're acting like a six-year-old."

"Supper. And you're not?"

"Dinner," he said, and before she could counter, swooped down on her, kissing her quite thoroughly. When he finally relented, she held on to his arms.

"Okay… you've got to stop doing that; I can never stand afterwards. What were we talking about, again?"

He smiled, a little smugly. "We were getting ready to go."

"Okay. Lead the way."

* * *

It was dark by the time they got to the Narrows, and raining. Jenn had informed Bruce, not that he needed it, that taking a Corvette or Lamborghini into the Narrows would be inviting death. They took the slightly-less-noticeable Aston Martin instead.

"Why couldn't you do this as Batman?" Jenn asked on the way over, out of curiosity.

"Well, think about it," he said. "We don't know much about the 'vampire' community in Gotham. If Batman comes into the picture, they could get defensive; lie. It's much better if a curious civilian looks into it." He cast her a sideways look. "Hence you."

They'd discussed it earlier—Jenn would be handling this. Bruce didn't need anyone wondering why he was poking into something that was unusual in itself, and since it was linked to a crime scene, that would double the suspicion. Jenn could escape the speculation a little easier, though. She wasn't quite the media sensation that Bruce seemed to be, and it seemed odder for a man of his age to be curious about vampires and costumes than a woman of hers.

He parked a block down from the store, glancing over at her. "Be careful. I'll be watching for you both ways."

She nodded. "Right. I'll be back soon." She slid out of the car, shut the door, and headed to Batwings.

She made it down the seat safely—it was still early enough that only the drug addicts and alcoholics were out—the muggers and rapists would come later, when twilight's glow was farther away.

On the outside, Batwings was worn down and dilapidated, like most of the buildings on the strip. When she went in, though, she saw how it had gotten its name.

It was lit with black and red lights, a strobe flashing unsettlingly through one corner. False cobwebs clung to visible rafters, and a thin, opaque fog covered most of the floor. It was, at first glance at least, a normal, all-year costume store. For a second, she stared in fascination at the grotesque masks lining the walls. Bringing one of the young Malton children in here would be to resign herself to them spending the night in her room for weeks to come.

After a second, she snapped out of it, deciding that now was not the time to gawk. She went to the counter, where a young man sat. He was handsome in a dark sort of way, his blue eyes standing out in stark relief against his pale skin and backdrop of black hair. He looked her over and allowed himself to smile. "Hey. Can I help you?"

"Yeah," she said, pulling a small, thin box out of her pocket. He watched with interest as she took the top off carefully, showing him the fang that rested on a pad of gauze, having earlier been swabbed for DNA by Bruce.

"Hmm," he said, plucking the slim item from its resting place and looking at it. "Vampire fang. Somebody had to get hit pretty hard to get this knocked out." He glanced back at her, still holding it between his fingertips. "What about it?"

She raised her eyebrows. "I was wondering if you could tell me about it."

He shrugged. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

That caused him to scrutinize her carefully. "All right, now I'm interested," he admitted. "Why are you so curious?"

She smiled, settling for a half-truth. "It was given to me as sort of a mystery to solve. It piqued my interest."

He nodded, the explanation good enough for him. "All right." He looked at it again, more carefully. "People get fangs like these when they're serious, when they don't have to worry about looking normal. You can't take these out without going to a special place or getting them knocked out. They're _fastened_ on, kind of like a bridge. Look, see here?"

He pointed to the wider end of the fang, and she leaned closer to see. "See how it's incomplete; splintered? It snapped off. I'd say whoever this belonged to got into a big fight."

He paused, and she asked, "Is there any way of telling who it belonged to?"

He nodded slightly, glancing at her. "Maybe. It really depends on who common this make is. I mean, you'd think there wouldn't be a lot of people who were willing to get _fangs_ glued to their teeth, but… this _is_ Gotham City. It's pretty big, and there are a lot of vampires around." He gave a short chuckle.

"How do you find out what make they are?" she asked. He paused again.

"You're going to have to talk to someone who actually put these _in._ We have a section in the back where they handle that, but I don't know anything about that—I run the front."

She raised her eyebrows. "Could I talk to someone now? I mean, is anyone back there?"

He gave her a shrewd look. After a second, he glanced out over the store. It was empty. "Ah, whatever," he said. "There's a bell if anyone needs me. Let's go."

He led her into a darker back hall. Jenn wasn't paranoid, but neither was she truly naïve. She slipped her hand into her back pocket, tightening it around the folded knife that she'd lately been keeping there. After all, this was the Narrows.

They went into a fluorescent-lit room that looked like the average lounge or living room, pervaded by a sharp, tangy smell, which she quickly identified as marijuana, the smell betraying it even if the thin joint one of the two men sprawled there was sucking on didn't.

Her guide scowled at the perpetrator. "Man, put that shit out. We've got company."

It was slightly comical, really. The two men she was now faced with couldn't have been more different. The one smoking the joint was short and skinny, with straight, long blonde hair and an impish look to him. The other was bigger, taller, with jet black hair and muscles that put the others to shame. He'd look perfectly in place in a blacksmith's forge in the Dark Ages.

With a scowl, the small one dashed the joint in the ashtray, mumbling a few rude things beneath his breath. The big one offered a lazy grin. "Who's your friend, James?"

James glanced uncertainly at her; they hadn't quite gotten into the introduction phase. She was quick to take her cue, saying, "I'm Jenn."

"James," he said, pointing to himself. "Brock—" to the big man, who waved, "and Johnny." The little guy blinked at her.

"What's she _here_ for?" questioned Johnny, wiggling his eyebrows and making a lewd gesture from his position on the couch. James immediately crossed the room and slapped the little guy upside the head. Johnny screamed obscenities at him. "What'd you _do_ _that_ for?"

"You're being rude," James snapped.

"And you wonder why you don't have a girlfriend," said Brock, rolling his eyes. "What you here for, sweetheart?" he asked, glancing at Jenn. His voice was kinder than Johnny's, no insinuation in his tone.

"She wants to find out about this," said James, holding up the fang. Brock got up and plucked it from his fingers, looking at it.

"This? Why?"

"Curiosity," Jenn said with a shrug. "James said you guys might be able to help me figure this out." Brock was giving her a skeptical look, so she was quick to add, "Unless you have some mad scientist-patient confidentiality rule you aren't allowed to break."

That broke through Brock's suspicion, and he laughed. "No, nothing like that. I can tell you whatever I want. Come on," he said, and gestured towards a doorway.

There came the faint sound of a bell ringing, and James looked resigned. "I've got to get back to the store," he excused himself, and left soundlessly. Johnny, looking bored, popped off the couch and followed Jenn as _she_ followed Brock into the room, fingers curled around the knife once more.

She needn't have worried. The room Brock led her into was a replica of a dentist's examination room, complete with the chair and rolling stool. He tilted an eyebrow at her. "Care to have a seat?"

"I'll stand, thanks," she said with a brief smile. Johnny was getting on her nerves, buzzing around behind her where he couldn't see her, and she turned and stared at him. He opened his eyes wide in assumed innocence and skipped on ahead of her to stand next to Brock, who was leaning against the wall as he looked carefully at the fang.

As she watched, the big man lifted an index finger and very carefully started scraping at the top. Already splintered, more shards soon fell away until he got it to the point he wanted, then he tilted it and squinted at it. After a second, he said, "Ah. Come here."

Warily, she did. He turned the fang towards her, and she saw a tiny indention in the fang, marked with some sort of imprint. "Sort of a trademark," he said. "This is one of the rarer makes, a little shorter, fatter. Almost a normal tooth." He shook his head and set it on a file cabinet, which he jerked open, sifting through some folders.

"Come on, man, this is boring," Johnny whined.

"Shut up, Johnny," snapped Brock. Sulking, the smaller man slunk from the room, and Brock sighed in relief. "Thought he'd never leave."

"What are you doing now?" Jenn asked, deciding against making a comment on Johnny.

"Looking for some folders…" he murmured distractedly. "I think we have a list of patients with this type of fang."

"Has anyone come in for repairs lately?" she asked. He shook his head.

"Nope. I'd remember; I'm the only one who does this stuff." She was silent, watching until he re-emerged with a triumphant, "A-ha! Got it."

He flipped open the folder he was having and started scanning it. After a moment, he smiled. "You're in luck. There are only a few people who got this type of fang; most go for the more noticeable. Kind of funny, huh? You'd bet most people would want them to look semi-normal, but no, they want to go all out…"

"Will you let me have the list?" Jenn asked.

"No," he answered, "but I'll copy off the names and contact information of the people on it."

That was almost certainly illegal, but after a moment of consideration, Jenn nodded. For once, the accommodating attitude that most Gothamites took on when it came to rules would work in their favor, if their killer actually came to this shop.

Minutes later, she walked back towards the Jaguar, a copy of the list in hand.

**Chapter Eighteen**

The second she got into the car again, Bruce knew by the smirk on Jenn's face that she'd done well. He lifted an eyebrow as she passed the sheet of paper she was holding to him. "You did it?"

"Yes, and they reacted better than expected," she said, as he took the list and scanned it. "The guy gave me the names and contacts of everyone who's had that kind of fang. There are your suspects, right there," she said, nodding towards the paper.

He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "You're amazing."

" _Thank_ you," she said, smiling slightly. "I must say, I don't think they would have given them to you nearly as easily."

"Yeah, that's because you're an attractive young woman," Bruce said with a shrug (leave it to him to make a compliment sound like an insult), and then lifted an eyebrow at her. "The guy didn't try to come on to you, did he?"

She laughed and lifted her left hand, waggling her ring finger, on which rested the thin white gold band. "I think this might have put him off a bit."

He smiled at her and leaned forward to crank up the car. Jenn was silent for a second, and then she said, "Hey, I've got a question for you."

"Go ahead."

"Do you think the killer actually _bit_ those girls? I mean, used the fangs and everything?"

Bruce stared at the road ahead in thought for a second, before slowly shaking his head. "I'd have to say… no. The punctures were too accurate, and I doubt the fake fangs would be sharp enough to go through skin. I think he used some sort of tool instead—pretty methodically, probably, spacing them apart and making the holes perfect circles."

"Oh," she said. After a second's thought, she added, " _That's_ creepy." At that second, her cell phone rang, and she found it and checked to see who it was: **LITTLE ROCK, ARKANSAS.** She gave Bruce an apprehensive look. "I think we might be about to hear from Meredith's parents," she said, and answered it as he showed her his crossed fingers.

"Yes, this is Henry Nolan," came an abrupt voice, very quickly. "Were you the one to send me that magazine a few days ago?"

"Yes, sir, I was," she replied quietly, glancing sideways at Bruce.

"What do you know about my daughter?" he demanded.

"So it _is_ your daughter on the cover?"

"Of _course_ it is—no doubt about it, unless she had an identical twin somewhere that no one knew about," he said, his breath coming fast.

"Okay—the thing is this. I met her a while ago. You've seen that she's famous now, and she's changed her name to Meredith Fille. I don't think she remembers anything about you or her life before Gotham. What happened six months ago?"

There was a doubtful pause, and then Henry sighed. "She just disappeared. She was taking the semester off from college, living with us, and one day she just wasn't there. We filed a missing person's report, but nobody's been able to find her. That was the last anyone heard of her… until this morning."

"Do you believe truly and honestly that she's your daughter?" Jenn asked, just to be sure.

"Beyond a shadow of a doubt," Henry answered immediately.

"All right. My husband believes she's been the victim of a psychotic fugue—an identity crisis, you could say. We've tried to discuss it with her manager, but she became evasive—we think she knows something, but doesn't want to say, because Meredith's bringing in so much money. I think that getting you and your wife up here, arranging a meeting between you and your daughter somehow, might break her out of this."

After a second, he asked, "How did you _find_ us?" His voice was a little disbelieving, and she smiled slightly.

"Mr. Nolan, I've been blessed with a lot of money. I like to use it for good as often as possible, and I believe that _this_ would be for good. Now, will you and your wife come?"

He hesitated, and then after a moment, said, "Fine. We'll get some plane tickets as soon as possible and—"

"Oh, please, let me take care of that," she said instantly. "I'll arrange for a flight and send the tickets. Do you think if I could get you on a plane this weekend that it would work out?"

"I think so," he said. "I'm supposed to work, but I could get off for something like this."

"All right," she said. "I'll arrange it."

"Okay," he said unevenly. "Th-thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," she said. "I'll see you this weekend, hopefully."

"Goodbye," he said, and a click signified that he'd just hung up. Jenn set down the phone and stared ahead, biting her lip.

After a second, Bruce looked at her. "We've got work to do," he said.

* * *

The moment they walked in the door, Alfred strode briskly up to them. "Madam Jenn. Lieutenant Gordon is here to visit you—I told him you were out, but he said he'd wait."

Bruce turned to her and lifted an eyebrow. "Broken the law lately?"

She looked disapprovingly at him, though it was outweighed with curiosity. "I really can't imagine why he's here," she said, sounding slightly troubled.

"You think it might be something bad?"

"I don't know," she said meditatively, biting her lip. "Alfred, where is he?"

"The Kelly Room, Madam," he said, naming a sitting room named for its tasteful green décor. She nodded and tugged on Bruce's hand.

"Come on. You're coming with me," she said. He masked a grin, showing a certain amount of curiosity himself.

"Yes, ma'am."

They went to the room and entered to find Gordon moving agitatedly about, looking unwilling to rest. Jenn cast an uncertain look at Bruce, and then stepped forward to greet their guest. "Lieutenant Gordon—this is a surprise."

"Mrs. Wayne," he said, gravely shaking her hand, and then doing the same with Bruce. "Mr. Wayne. I'm sorry if I'm intruding."

"Not at all," she said. "I'm just a little curious, that's all. Is this about the situation last week?"

"In a manner of speaking… yes," he said slowly.

She raised her eyebrows when no further answer seemed to be forthcoming. "Maybe we should sit."

"Yes," he agreed.

The three of them settled, and eventually, Gordon spoke again. "I have no doubt that you heard that the men were after Batman—that was their motive for the whole thing. They wanted Batman for one reason or the other."

"Yes," she said, avoiding looking at Bruce.

"Well, we've been keeping tabs on the men Batman put in the hospital—" Jenn definitely wasn't looking at Bruce now; if she did, he might lose control and smirk, which might set her off—"and a while ago, one of them was paid a visit. We got the whole conversation on tape."

She nodded patiently, waiting to see why this involved her, and he lifted his eyes to her for a moment, rather searchingly. "You were mentioned," he said simply.

At that, she raised her eyebrows. "In what way?"

"Well, the man noticed that you disappeared for a while—or rather, that you reappeared where you hadn't been before. They deduced that _you_ must have been the one to make contact with Batman, and now I think they're after you to find out if you have any attachment to him."

"You've got to be kidding," Jenn said.

"No, unfortunately I'm not. I think you're the only lead they have right now, and I _really_ think they're going to follow up on it."

"So this is a warning?" Jenn asked, sensing more to it.

"Somewhat. To be honest, I came to ask for your help."

"No." Bruce spoke for the first time, his voice slightly rough. Jenn glanced in surprise at him, and Gordon fixed a steady gaze on his face.

"Why not?" he asked.

"The answer's obvious. No."

"What?" Jenn wanted to know. She felt stupid when Bruce apparently already had this figured out, but asking was obviously the only way she was going to get answers.

Bruce, still apparently trying to stare down Gordon, spoke to her. "He wants to set a trap using you as the bait. He wants to try and catch somebody who can tell him something." Gordon didn't deny it.

"Well, why not?" she asked, a little indignantly. Bruce broke his eye-lock with Gordon then, glancing at her.

"It's too dangerous," he said. "Traps _never_ go well, especially if you're dealing with someone smart. Any number of things could go wrong, and the guys already showed that they don't mind killing people. I'm not going to put you in that situation."

"But, Bruce, I want to help," she objected.

"Jenn." He locked gazes with her, sounding dead serious. "I said no."

She glared back at him, and they had a tense, silent standoff for a few seconds. Gordon interrupted it by standing. "Well," he said, "I guess that's that. Thank you for your patience, the two of you—I'll see myself out." He pushed his hands in his pockets and walked to the door.

Jenn glowered at Bruce for a few more seconds, and then spun off the couch, following him. "Jim," she said quietly, unconsciously falling into the familiarity as she stopped him just outside the door. "Let me talk to him, okay? I'll get back to you later about this."

He looked at her for a moment, and then nodded. "All right. But if it's going to just cause discord between you two, I'd rather you dropped it. And—be _safe,_ " he cautioned. "These men are after you. That's nothing to joke about."

She gave him a slight smile. "Thank you." He nodded and turned away, bidding Alfred farewell as he passed the butler.

Alfred reciprocated, and then turned an attentive gaze on Jenn. She shook her head at him, obviously put out with her husband, and then turned to go confront Bruce. He was sitting in the exact same spot she'd left him, resting his head in his hands. She sat down across from him in the spot where Gordon had been seconds earlier.

"Bruce," she started.

"No," he said, lifting his head from his hands and looking at her seriously. "How many times am I going to have to say it before you listen?"

"A lot more," she said stubbornly. He sighed exasperatedly, and she intensified her argument: "Bruce, these men are after me! You can't follow me twenty-four-seven, and even if you could, you still might not be able to handle them if I was attacked! What _else_ are we going to do?"

"We'll get you a bodyguard," he said.

"Oh, that'll work wonderfully, having someone poking around the manor," she said sardonically. "I can't believe you're saying no to this. These are your, _Batman's_ , enemies! You have a chance here to catch them and you're turning it down because you're worried about me. What about Gotham?"

"You think Gotham matters _that_ much to me?" he demanded, suddenly violent. "I could care _less_ about Gotham if it meant you were going to get hurt!"

There was a brief pause. Jenn couldn't help but feel the intensity of the declaration—after all, Bruce dedicated his life to the salvation of Gotham. She had to push it aside, though—this was important. "I will _never_ ," she said, enunciating clearly, "feel safe until we get these guys. I'll be looking over my shoulder now, knowing that they're after me."

"You're _not_ doing this," he said fiercely. "End of discussion." When she looked as if she were about to protest again, he stood abruptly. "I've got to go to work." He headed for the closest passage that lead to the cave, leaving Jenn upset and angry.

After a minute, Alfred came in. "I take it that the marital discussion didn't go so well."

"No," she sighed, putting her face in her hands. "He's so stubborn, Alfred," she said, her voice muffled.

"Believe me, I know. But I must agree with him." She lifted her head to look at him. He appeared very somber. "Putting you in a dangerous situation like that is just foolish. Neither of us would imperil you like that, and I commend him for remaining stoic in spite of your persuasion."

She sighed grumpily. "Thanks a lot."

He smiled. "It's love for you, dear Madam. He doesn't want to risk losing you, as he well could in a situation like that. Do you understand?"

"I _understand,_ but I'm not happy with it."

"I suppose you must live through it," Alfred said cheerfully. "Now, I believe it's been a while since you've eaten, hiding down there like you were." He shot her a look of disapproval, and she grinned reluctantly and unapologetically. "Come and have a bite; I've got a bit of supper ready for you."

Sliding off the chair, she followed him to the kitchen.

* * *

The signal was shining into the polluted sky of Gotham, so Batman tied up his stakeout of the first person on the list he'd been given—a girl in her mid-twenties. He'd been watching her move around in her apartment for the past thirty minutes—her fangs were still intact, and though it was possible they could have been repaired, he doubted. She seemed to be the average eccentric—green hair, a laissez-faire attitude, an apparent fascination with the occult, but judging by the numerous phone calls she'd made while he was watching, she was neither friendless nor burdened with a sense of seriousness. She didn't fit the profile. He couldn't see her performing these murders.

It took a dozen or so minutes to get to rooftop where Gordon stood. As was his habit, he approached from behind, keeping his distance. "You called?" He had a good idea that he knew what this was about, but didn't let on.

Gordon turned. "We've got a new lead on that hostage situation last week." Yes, it was exactly what he'd thought. He waited, and Gordon continued. "I think this is bigger than we thought. I think this is a new crime lord starting to leave his mark on the city."

"The men aren't talking?" Batman questioned.

"Not to _us_ ," said Gordon, a slight smile appearing on his face. "But, since Gotham has a tendency to produce corrupt security guards, we bugged the room. One of the men named Sykes got a visit from an apparent colleague that he called Mr. Thornton. They mentioned someone they only called _Boss_."

"Hmm." Batman waited for the inevitable to surface, and sure enough, it did.

"They also mentioned Jenn Redgrove—you talked to her last week; she was the girl you got to tell everyone to run." Batman nodded shortly, just to show that he remembered. "Well, Sykes noticed. They think she might be in contact with you, and I think that it's going to drive them to go after her. Their motive, presumably, is to get to you, as illogical as the _path_ to you may be."

"She's not protected?" Batman asked.

"I'm not sure. Yeah, she's definitely under some type of security, but I don't think it's enough. We don't know enough about these guys to try to guess how they're going to operate. Anyway, I'm trying to set up a trap to catch them, to dissuade them from going after her again."

Batman clenched his jaw to keep from saying something foolish. Gordon didn't appear to notice. "Right now, her husband's not going for it, but it might end up working out. If so, I want you to be watching when we do it."

Batman gave a tight nod and changed the subject. "I think I'm getting close in the serial killer case."

"Really." Gordon lifted an eyebrow at him. "He hasn't struck for a while. PD's hoping he'll just quit, but I doubt that's going to happen."

Batman shook his head. "I'm not sure about this, so I won't burden you with details until I know."

"Right," said Gordon, waving him off. "There's plenty of time later to bring me up to speed. I just wanted to let you know what's going on."

Batman nodded, and, without a word, dropped over the edge of the roof.

Within an hour, he had trouble on the Meredith Fille front. It started with a dark shape on a rooftop, but as he came closer out of curiosity, he quickly was able to discern her features. She gave him a small smile, gestured, and disappeared into the building.

Scowling, he followed, hoping that this really would be resolved by the weekend. He was tired of having to check her every time she got it into her head to 'be bad.' Once inside the building, he assessed it—another jewelry store. He was going to have to figure out how she was getting past the alarms.

"Care to help me?" she questioned from the dark, gesturing towards a case.

"I'm getting tired of this," he growled. "Leave within the next three seconds, and I'll forget it."

She smiled teasingly. "You're giving me chance after chance," she said, turning to reach towards the case.

Something in him snapped. He was utterly sick of this. With a few movements, he reached her; with another, her hands were behind her back, and finally, he cuffed her, and then stepped back. She stood stock still for a second, as if unable to comprehend what had just happened, and then she whirled.

"What are you _doing_?" He knocked her over without preamble, and she lay on the floor, shocked.

"Stopping you," he said, finding some spare line usually used for the grapple wire and binding her feet before she recovered enough to react. He finished just in time, and straightened up as she began to wriggle.

" _What?_ You're not supposed to _do_ that! What on _earth_ is wrong with you?"

He didn't deign to answer, smashing one of the glass cases. "Ah, there it is," he graveled to himself when a loud alarm went off. Meredith was screaming at him by now, but he tuned it out, heading up to the rooftop exit and getting away from the scene. The police could handle her now.

* * *

Jenn gradually awoke as she became aware that Bruce, back from his excursion, was entrapped in another nightmare. It hadn't reached the violence of the last one yet, but it looked pretty intense—he was shaking, making the mattress tremble, and he was muttering, forehead creased in troubled sleep.

Still a little groggy, she took him by the shoulder and shook, watching as his eyes moved restlessly behind the closed lids. It took him a moment, but he woke, coming slowly to consciousness in the dark. "Jenn?" His voice was rough.

"It's me," she said soothingly, checking the dimly-lit alarm clock. It was three thirty in the morning. "Are you all right?"

His heavy, irregular breathing slowed, evened out. Finally, he murmured, almost whispering, "It was just a dream."

She lifted her hand, running the back gently across his cheek. She frowned as she felt the unusual temperature of her skin, and she pressed her palm to her forehead. "You're burning up."

"It was just a dream," he repeated, gently grasping her wrist and pulling it away from his head, and then shifting and sitting up slightly.

She sighed and got up. She traversed the dark bedroom into the bathroom connected to it and cut on the evening light, squinting at the illumination. She went to the faucet and ran some cold water, filling the glass next to the sink and taking a drink. Afterwards, she took one of the neatly-folded washcloths on the counter and ran it under the water till it was soaked, and then wrung it out.

Satisfied, she cut off the water and headed out of the bathroom, turning off the light on her way. Her eyes, having adjusted to the light, took a moment to get used to the dark, but she wandered across the room anyway, finding the bed after a moment.

"Here," she murmured, sitting down and handing him the compress. She half expected him to turn it down, but after a minute, he took it and put it across his forehead, obscuring his eyes.

"You think you're coming down with something?" she questioned after a minute, uncomfortable with the silence. Normally, they could go for hours without speaking and both would feel perfectly relaxed, but there was something unsettling about it now.

He shook his head slightly. "No. It's just the dream."

"You keep saying that," she said softly. "Was it… any different?"

He'd never really told her in detail about the nightmares, and she'd never asked. One night early on, when they were particularly bad—he'd had two in a row—he'd mentioned his parents and the night of their death, and she assumed that mainly, he dreamed about that.

Now, though, he hesitated for a long minute before nodding. She didn't have to ask, because he said flatly, "You. You were killed."

He took the cloth from his eyes, setting it on the bedside table, heedless of its dampness. He looked at her, and she could see his eyes in the dark, though shadows played tricks on his face, changing it from what she knew. "You wonder why I don't want to let you participate in this trap; that's why."

She shook her head. "Nothing's going to happen to me, Bruce."

"You _can't_ say that," he said, shaking his head and leaning back, a certain air of hopelessness surrounding him. "You could die at any moment. Just like that, you'd be gone."

"I'm _not_ going to leave you," she said, instilling a bit of forcefulness in her tone. What was meant to reassure apparently had the opposite effect, as he grew more agitated.

"People have been telling me that my whole life," he muttered. "I stopped believing them a long time ago."

She decided not to speak again—his dream had cast him into a bleak mood that couldn't be cured by anything she'd say. Instead, she moved across the bed to him, sitting up next to him and wrapping her arms around his still frame. At first, he was rigid, unresponsive, but after she laid her head on his shoulder he started to relax, little by little.

Eventually, he reached up and took her hand, kissing the back of it and then pressing it to his chest. The two of them sat silently at the head of the bed until the gray light of pre-dawn pressed through the window.

**Chapter Nineteen**

One of the benefits of being a CEO of the business was that, as busy as one tended to be, it was always rather easy to put work on hold temporarily. Jenn had been busy with various mysteries lately, and figured that the steel mills could wait.

Still, she couldn't put it off forever, and so was up the next morning, ready to head to work. The newspaper was on the kitchen table, and she started to flip through it. Alfred, after making sure she had her usual bowl of sliced fruit, went to a spare pantry to seek out an elusive spice he would need later on that day.

Bruce surprised her by surfacing minutes later. She gave him a surprised look. "Up already?"

"I couldn't sleep without you there," he answered simply, heading straight to the refrigerator.

"Way to make me feel guilty," she said as he took a gallon of milk out, returning her attention to the paper. As she was flipping through the Lifestyles section, a headline caught her eye, and quickly, she pulled the section free and scanned the article. "Bruce!"

"What?" he asked, searching for a glass. She held up the paper in response, and he turned to glance over the headline:

**GOTHAM'S TOP MODEL CAUGHT THIEVING BY BATMAN!**

To his credit, he didn't smirk. He lifted his eyebrows very innocently. "I was having a bad night."

She fought back a laugh. This was bad enough without her encouraging him. "Bruce," she said, in as stern a tone as she could manage, "we're trying to _help_ her. Sending her to prison isn't the way to go." Then again, it was hard to be stern with one's husband when he bore a slight milk mustache, and she quickly stifled a giggle.

Bruce, aware of her source of amusement, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "She's been asking for it for weeks."

"That may be the case," she admitted, "but for Pete's sake…"

"She'll get out on bail, easy," he said.

She sighed and shook her head. There was no use arguing with him—Meredith had obviously irritated him till he refused to take it anymore. "Suit yourself," she said, folding up the paper. "While I'm at work today, I'm going to try to sort out the Nolans' flight. Hopefully we can get them here by Saturday, or Sunday at the latest." She winced, suddenly remembering something. "What's today?"

"Thursday."

"Crap. I have to go to that stupid girl's night out thing tomorrow night," she sighed. Bruce smirked. "It's not funny," she complained. "It might not be so bad, but if Mrs. Landlass is organizing it, I have the feeling it _will_ be."

"I'm sure I could rescue you, if you're dreading it _that_ much," Bruce said.

"No… I'm going to have to suffer through it. I've been avoiding it for too long," she sighed as Alfred re-emerged.

"Ah, Master Wayne," he said approvingly. "You're up." Bruce nodded at him, heading to the table to sit next to Jenn.

"Morning, Alfred. Where's that article, Jenn? I want to see what it says."

Rolling her eyes, she dug it from the pile of paper and handed it to him. "You better hope she _does_ get out, Mister," she said. "If she doesn't—"

"Oh, relax," he said absently, eyes scanning the page. "I'll look into it today, and if she isn't out, I'll post bail myself. Anonymously, of course. Being able to do that was worth it."

She gave him a smile tinged with irony at that. "Poor, unfortunate you, beaten into a corner by a model."

He snorted. "Hardly."

They were keeping things light, but she could tell he was still troubled by last night's incident. There was nothing she could see to do to relieve him, though, so she'd have to watch him brood it out. As usual. She sighed, wishing that she wasn't so helpless—then again, if wishes were horses…

She picked at her food, not really hungry, until she had to start getting ready for work.

An hour later, she was in the building, dealing with issues as they came at her and dodging sycophants. There was one suck-up, though, she was never able to avoid—Owen was loitering next to Donna's desk, and straightened as soon as she saw her. She suppressed a sigh.

"Mrs. Wayne," he said silkily. "You're looking lovely today. Is that a new hairstyle?"

"Thank you, Owen," she said tiredly, "and no, it's not. Donna, are there any messages?"

"Several," Donna remarked, handing them over. Before Owen could go back to his flattery, a familiar voice caused Jenn to turn.

"About time you showed up."

"Edward," she said with a slight smile, gesturing him into her office—she'd rather not talk in front of Owen. She might have been judging him unfairly, but she'd heard him gossiping away to Donna many times before and doubted that he'd hold back just because a higher-up was involved. Edward lifted his eyebrows at her, but followed, shutting the doors behind them.

"Where've you been?" he questioned, lifting his eyebrows at her.

"Dealing with things at home," she said, not very apologetically.

"As a businessman, I'd tell you that you should get your work done first, but since I'm first and foremost a family man… I'm going to tell you that no man on his death bed has ever said 'I wish I spent more time at work.' Family comes first. How's Bruce?"

"As well as can be expected," she said, crossing over to her desk, where a sheaf of folders lay—work had been piling up again.

"And how are you?" questioned Edward, a hint of tenderness in his tone. She sighed and stared out of the window.

"Better than I deserve," she said.

"Sounds like problems." He wasn't prying, just making a statement. She shook her head, not replying, and he added, "I'm getting that feeling more and more."

"What feeling?" she asked, glancing at him.

"That things aren't going so well with you."

She gave him a slight smile. "Don't trick yourself into thinking I'm unhappy," she said. "Thoughtful, yeah, but I'm not unhappy. I get the feeling, too, that you want to blame Bruce every time I come into work looking tired or preoccupied."

He held her gaze steadily. "It's no secret that I don't like him."

"Not at all," she said. "But after I talked to you last time, you seemed to be warming up to him."

"Just because I don't want to see your marriage end in divorce," he replied.

"Then why are you always trying to blame him for my moods?" she asked. Surprisingly, the conversation didn't feel tense—she was very relaxed, sifting through the folders.

"Because I don't want you to deny it if you're unhappy. There's such a thing as counseling, you know."

She looked up at him, smiling slightly. "I know. But I don't think we need a shrink, thanks—trust me, Edward, we're fine." _We'd probably drive the poor guy crazy._

He shrugged, letting it go. "All right. One of the folders in that stack—" he said, pointing—"has some information about the shelters. We've got buildings, we just need staff, and there's a list of people you need to consider in there. No one else wants to take it on—it _is_ your pet project."

"Yes, it is," she acknowledged, making no complaint. "Any other news?"

He nodded. "The workers in Metropolis have been relocated and the plant shut down."

"Good. I'd better get to work," she said.

He turned to leave, but then glanced back. "Jenn, if I might make a suggestion…" She looked at him, nodding accordingly, and he said, "If you don't want to work so much here, _don't._ It'd be very simple to find some competent people who could handle it, and you'd just have to run the most important things and make sure other things are getting done correctly." He raised his eyebrows. "I don't know of many girls who want to spend their first few years of marriage so busy that they barely have time to see their husbands."

She couldn't help but smile. _Edward and his fatherly concern for me._ "I've been thinking about something like that," she admitted. "But it's _just_ thinking. We'll see how things turn out, how much time I actually need to be spending at home."

He nodded. "All right, Jenn. I'll pop in later."

"Bye," she said, plunking down behind her desk as he quietly left her office. She had a lot of work to do, true, but first things first: she booked a flight for the Nolans, arranging to have the tickets sent to them overnight. They'd arrive late Saturday. All that was left was to organize a meeting with Meredith.

* * *

Five minutes. Jenn had been at the insanely expensive restaurant with Mrs. Landlass and her group of 'girls' for _five minutes_ , and she _already_ felt like she was going insane. The gossip hadn't ceased since she'd arrived, and many of the women were finishing up their first drinks. She was in for a long night…

There were five women there, not including herself—all of them married. She'd met most of them at least once before, but re-introductions were quickly made smoothly by Mrs. Landlass.

There was Beatrice Rawlinson, who sat with a permanent look of displeasure on her face. Stephanie McDermott was a catlike woman with a deliberate air about her. Mary Van Patten had a nose that seemed permanently turned up, and Ellen Bryce seemed unhappy unless she was making someone else miserable, or talking about someone else's miseries.

Jenn tried not to pre-judge, but after a minute or so of listening to them, she came to the inevitable conclusion that they were likely the most vicious group of women she'd ever encountered. She tried to blend into her chair and tune it out, but unfortunately, there was little else to focus on.

"Jenn, dear," said Mrs. Landlass after another minute, and Jenn inwardly steeled herself, "have you heard that Amelia Ridley had her baby?"

Jenn was surprised at this news, and she honestly answered, "No, I hadn't. That's wonderful news—was it a boy or a girl?"

"Oh, a little girl," said Beatrice offhandedly. "About time, too, after that passel of brats she's had."

"I will _never_ understand why she insists on breeding like a rabbit in heat," sniffed Mary. "It _ruins_ the figure. Not that she had much to speak of beforehand, but honestly, she's been walking around like a blimp these past few months…" Some of the women tittered along with her. Jenn felt a flare of annoyance, and before she could stop herself, she spoke up.

"Actually, I think she's looked lovely. The pregnancy gave her such a glow—don't you think, Stephanie?" asked Jenn, appealing to the least sadistic (so far) of the women.

Stephanie quirked an eyebrow at her. "If it did, it escaped my notice," she said coolly.

 _So much for finding an ally,_ Jenn thought. The gossip immediately swung to another area, as the women grew bored easily. " _Did_ you hear about Meredith Fille?" Ellen questioned. "Arrested in a jewelry shop—how _mortifying!_ " Judging by her laugh, she found it more amusing than anything.

"What on earth was she _doing_ there?" Beatrice wondered, sipping at her drink. "Perhaps she's worse off than we thought."

"I never liked her," said Ellen. "She seemed so _false._ "

Stephanie sighed, looking at a young waiter across the room. "If Henry wasn't having me watched, I wouldn't hesitate for a second," she murmured, almost to herself. "I'd have him in my bed by tonight."

Jenn almost choked on a sip of her water, but Mary gave Stephanie a sympathetic look. "Oh, I know," she sighed. "Paul's exploits in bed are laughable nowadays. I've taken to just lying there till he's done with his seizure, or whatever he's doing."

"You two are _most_ unfortunate," Beatrice said, a little smugly. "Roger and I don't even sleep in the same bed anymore. We both know that we're having a dozen affairs, but neither of us cares."

The other women made various exclamations of envy. Jenn refrained, obviously, disbelieving her own ears, until Ellen shrewdly looked at her. "You and Bruce have been having some trouble lately, haven't you, Jenn?"

"No," Jenn answered, managing to appear quite collected. "The media was being the media and insisting that we were in the middle of a divorce, but everything's been fine."

"I still say you should have divorced him," said Mrs. Landlass, starting on her second drink. "You'd be taking away millions, even billions. It would have been a very wise move, Jenn, darling."

"I don't know if _I_ would," murmured Mary thoughtfully. "He's easily the sexiest man in our circles. What does he look like naked, Jenn?"

Jenn was more than a little irritated at the question, but was saved from having to answer by Stephanie's scoff of disgust. "Oh, please. Being married to him would be like marrying a log. The man's _incredibly_ stupid; how do you put up with it, Jenn?"

Jenn lifted a cool eyebrow, feeling her annoyance grow. She forced herself to relax, knowing that Bruce's public persona was a cultivated one, and that she shouldn't smash it to bits because she was angry at these women. "Easily," she said. "He's different when we're alone." There. She wasn't succumbing to their idle speculation, but neither was she contradicting Bruce's public behavior.

"How's your sex life?" Beatrice asked curiously.

"That's my own business," Jenn said, a little coldly. She couldn't help wondering if these women had been raised this way, or if it was something that came with their apparently unhappy marriages.

Beatrice laughed at her. "Oh, don't be such a prude. We're curious."

"She must be having an affair," Ellen said. "Otherwise she wouldn't be so quiet."

"I think if I was having an affair, I'd be as open as you _ladies_ —" her tone suggested that they were anything but—"are about it."

"Oh, leave her be," said Mrs. Landlass complacently. "She's recently married; the glow hasn't faded yet."

The rest of the women regarded Jenn with a hint of chill, and continued to gossip, excluding her with an appalling lack of subtlety. She was grateful for it, and focused on getting through the evening, calculating how long she had—she'd told Alfred to pick her up at ten, so she had at least an hour and a half…

She was surprised, then, when she felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to see her husband looking down at her, appearing rather amused. "Bruce!" she said, unable to help sounding pleased. "What are you doing here?" _Save me,_ her eyes begged.

His eyes in part twinkled down at her for a second before he glanced around the table. "Ladies," he said, in the lazy tone of the Fop. "You'll have to excuse me, but I'm going to steal my wife from you for the rest of the evening. There's something I need her help with."

Mrs. Landlass made a sound of discontent. "Are you quite certain?" she asked, but Jenn was hurrying to get her bag and jacket. Bruce reached down a hand to help his wife up, grinning apologetically and a little foolishly at Mrs. Landlass.

"I'm afraid so," he said. "It's quite unavoidable."

As Jenn turned to say her goodbyes, she noticed that more than one of the women's eyes were fixed on her husband, and Mary was obviously licking her lips. A possessive instinct surged through her, and she leaned up to engage Bruce in a rather heated kiss. He didn't seem at _all_ opposed, dropping his hands to her lower back and making the depth of the liplock rather obvious—she thought she could feel him smile against her mouth, probably quite aware of what was going on.

When they broke apart a few seconds later, Jenn was satisfied to see that Mary looked quite put-off and most of the other women had various expressions of surprise on their faces. "Ladies," she said pleasantly, aware of Bruce's arm tightly around her. "I'll see you next time."

"Don't be a stranger, dear," purred Mrs. Landlass, and Bruce guided his wife away.

As they exited the restaurant, Bruce managed to stop smirking long enough to say, "I can't help but feel that you were marking your territory with that scene back there."

"I was," she said briskly. "I am _never_ getting trapped into a situation like that again. You would _not_ believe some of the things those women talked about—I'm _so_ grateful you came to get me out of it." She wrapped her arm around him as they walked and hugged him tightly to show her thanks.

"I said I would," he said, "and seeing you all jealous made it entirely worth it." He was teasing her, and she laughed.

"Oh, stop it. What would you do if a bunch of men were looking at _me_ that way?"

He paused to think, opening her car door for her, and then said, "Good point."

She laughed, and when he got in, said, "Really, though—thank you. That was excruciating, and I was only there for half an hour."

"What are husbands for?" he asked, pulling the car out of the space.

"Cheating on, apparently," she said sourly, looking disgusted. He chuckled, and her phone rang. "Crap," she muttered, digging it out of her purse. The screen read **UNKNOWN CALLER** , and she hesitated for a second before answering. "Jenn Wayne."

"I want to talk to him," spat Malachi, sounding infuriated. "Put that _bastard_ on the phone, _right now._ "

Hmm. Apparently, the vicious group of women weren't the only ones to see her little display. Jenn cast a quick sideways glance towards Bruce, who was looking undeniably curious, and then answered as calmly as she could. "I'm sorry, but no."

He was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was almost pleasant. "Jennifer, this is very important. Be a dear and put him on."

"No," she repeated uncompromisingly. "I'm not letting you."

In a split second, he was furious again. "Why?" he hissed. "Afraid he won't be able to handle himself? Things are changing fast, Jennifer; _let me talk to him._ "

"I said _no!_ " she said, feeling her grip on her temper slide, her voice lifting slightly. "I _meant_ it. You are _not_ talking to him." She hung up and tossed the phone onto the floor of the car, running her hands through her hair in an agitated move.

Seconds later, it rang again. Letting out a slight snarl, she dove for it and cut it off with slightly shaking hands. Only after the screen had gone dark and the phone was safely buried in her purse did she try to relax.

"What was _that_ all about?" Bruce asked casually. She shook her head, exhaling slowly.

"It was nothing," she said evasively. Her husband gave her a skeptical look.

"Don't expect me to believe that. Look at you, you're _all_ worked up. You're shaking, Jenn," he said, his tone taking a concerned turn. "What's wrong?"

For some reason, perhaps the sense that it was all about to come out, Jenn felt her eyes heating up. "It's so _stupid_ ," she whispered, fixing her eyes on the roof of the car. Bruce was really looking worried now.

"Jenn, what's wrong?" he asked, reaching over to put one hand on her shoulder, dividing his attention between her and the road. She shook her head, and finally took a deep breath.

"A little while after I went to Metropolis, I… picked up a stalker. This guy's been calling me pretty regularly, railing on about how my marriage to you was a mistake, how I deserve better, how he intends to 'liberate' me. Sometimes it's really creepy; it's like he's watching me. Not so much the watching part since I went back to the Manor, but he's still called me."

"Why didn't I know about this before?" he asked, returning his right hand to the steering wheel and sounding tense. She glanced over and saw that he was squeezing the wheel, a bad habit of his when he was angry or on edge.

"I… I don't know," she murmured. "At first, I wasn't talking to you, with the whole Metropolis incident… afterwards, things have been really busy and I just didn't want to bother you."

"Bother me with your safety?" he asked with sudden, biting sarcasm. "No, of course not. How could you come to me with such a trivial thing as _that_?"

"Well, I'm _sorry,_ " she retorted, stung, "but I don't think it's _my_ fault that a psycho out there is stalking me!"

"Of course it isn't," he said, exasperated. "But you didn't _tell_ me."

"Well, now you know," she said, slouching slightly in her chair. After a second, though, she was struck with how childish she was acting, and she straightened up. "Look, I'm sorry. I sort of forgot about it—he hasn't contacted me in a while. I guess he was watching tonight and the scene in the restaurant sort of sparked his jealousy."

Bruce's eyes were dark and thunderous as he stared at the road ahead for a long time. Eventually, he said, "Jenn, it's getting _very_ dangerous for you here in Gotham."

She stared at him. "What are you saying?"

"With the guys behind the hostage situation after you," he said slowly, appearing to not have even heard her, "and now this stalker guy… I'm starting to get worried." She waited, aware that he was reaching a point. After a minute, he said, "Maybe it'd be safer for you in England."

"What? No," she said immediately. He shot her an irritated look, which she reciprocated with on of her own. "Think about it," she said. "Malachi's a _stalker._ He has no life; he'd be perfectly free to follow me over there. And if the hostage guys are determined, they'll find me, too. They'll probably be even more suspicious that I'm leaving right at the time they're looking for me."

"Unlikely," he said.

"Over there, I'm further from you and your protection, too," Jenn pointed out. "You couldn't exactly keep an eye on me if I was in England."

"I wouldn't _need_ to if you were in England," he argued. "It's safe there."

"Yeah, right! You're sending me to _Lauren Malton!_ "

"You know that's not what I meant."

"Whether it was or not, the fact remains that I'm _not_ leaving Gotham unless you drag me kicking and screaming to the airport."

A slight smile curled his mouth upwards. "Don't tempt me," he said, but didn't bring it up again. She figured that she had won… for now. Once he'd had more time to think about it, though, she was sure he'd come back with another argument, and he'd be far harder to beat. She just had to prepare herself for that.

"All right," he continued, "tell me everything you can remember about this Malachi guy."

**Chapter Twenty**

James sat in the back of Batwings with Brock and Johnny, spending the slow hours of the morning watching TV while his colleagues played cards, making foolish wagers and going to favors when they couldn't spare any more cash.

While channel surfing, he landed on the news and stopped there. They were running something on Redgrove, Incorporated, but that wasn't what interested him—he recognized the woman the camera was resting on. "Hey, guys!" he said. "Check it out!"

Johnny didn't even look, but Brock glanced over. "What?"

"Check it out; it's that girl that was here the other day," James said, pointing.

"What? No, it's not."

"No, check it out!"

"It looks nothing _like_ her."

"Looks _just_ like her."

"All right, then, genius, tell me why the CEO of Redgrove, Incorporated was hanging around our shack of a costume shop when she's got daddy's billion-dollar empire to run."

"Look, her name's even Jenn."

"That girl's name was Jess."

"Oh, come _on_ , man," said James, scowling at him. "You must have had some of Johnny's stuff that day."

"No, you're just screwed in the head."

James didn't push it any further, grumbling slightly to himself—but he couldn't resist one more comment: "It was _too_ her."

* * *

Gina and Henry Nolan would be arriving at around seven o'clock Saturday night. Alfred had volunteered to see to them, to tote them to their hotel and encourage them to be patient, to wait till the Waynes could arrange something before seeing their daughter.

The reason Bruce and Jenn weren't able to attend to it was that they were obligated to attend a charity gala at the Olympus Hotel tonight. Jenn might have been irritated at the commitment, but there were rumors circulating that Meredith was going to be in attendance as well, hopefully giving her a chance to talk to her.

No sooner had they entered than they were attacked by Mrs. Landlass. "Bruce; Jenn! You know, dear, you quite disappointed me by leaving early yesterday evening—we had _such_ a good time. Stephanie got drunk and made an absolute goose of herself, trying to climb up on the table." She tittered mean-spiritedly.

"Yes," said Jenn absently, "I'm sorry I had to dash out so quickly… Mrs. Landlass, do you know if Meredith is here?"

"Fille?" asked Mrs. Landlass, surprised. "I believe so. Word has it that her manager—that Chase woman—was furious; _made_ her come today to show that she wasn't afraid to show her face." She smirked unpleasantly. "I'm sure that by the end of the night, she'll realize it was a mistake."

"Excuse me, but I've got to go," said Jenn abruptly. "I'm sure you'll find someone else to help you stab other people in the back." She turned and merged into the flow of people. Bruce raised his eyebrows, bade Mrs. Landlass goodbye with an intentionally foolish grin, and followed her.

He found her safely cloistered away from everyone else, behind a supporting pillar. He leaned against the side carefully, crossing his arms and glancing around. "A little brusque, Jenn."

"I know. I've had it up to _here_ with that woman, though. She's so condescending."

Bruce gave her a half smile. "Hey, I know—I've known her since I was about ten. She's just one of those people everybody has to put up with, so just relax, push it aside, and focus on Meredith, okay?"

"Got it," Jenn said, taking a few deep breaths. After a second, she relaxed. "All right, let's get to work."

The two spread through the gathered people, hunting Meredith. Incidentally, it was Bruce that found her first, but he didn't approach, instead going to collect Jenn. She was ensnared in a conversation (one that she actually _wanted_ to have) with Amelia Ridley's second cousin, about Amelia herself and her new baby.

Bruce waited until she was done and then looped his arm through hers. "We've got a sighting," he murmured into her ear.

"Is Chase with her?" she questioned.

"Not that I saw. Come on."

They reached Meredith after a few interceptions. She looked tired and upset, and shot them an annoyed glance as they approached. "Come to gloat?" she snapped at Jenn.

Jenn figured she should have expected the hostility. Meredith had been pitched into the piranha tank, after all. She gentled her voice. "No, Meredith, I haven't. I came to talk to you, to see how you were—we haven't really spoken since Valentine's."

Meredith surveyed her with a certain amount of suspicion. Finally, she decided that Jenn was sincere and let her shoulders slump a little. "I'm horrible," she said dully. "I'm sure you heard about the incident last night?"

Jenn trusted herself to nod, wondering to herself how Meredith would react if she knew that Bruce was the one who'd caused her the trouble. Of course, that would make Bruce Batman, too, the one Meredith was supposedly madly in love with… so her reaction would be a bit hard to predict.

"Well," sighed Meredith, "everyone's giving me a terrible time about it." She leaned towards Jenn, lowering her voice so Bruce couldn't hear. "You're the _only_ one who knows why I had a motive for it!"

"What _was_ your motive?"

"I was trying to get _his_ attention," murmured Meredith, looking put out. "It didn't really work the way I wanted it to." She gave a small sigh of desperation. "I'm really starting to think he may not like me."

Jenn looked sympathetically at her. "You have to consider the possibilities, Mere," she said gently. "Who knows what's up with him? He could be married, gay…" Okay, she added that last bit for Bruce's benefit. "Could be he's just not looking for someone right now."

"Well, I'm not giving up," Meredith said, a stubborn set to her jaw.

"Well, then, be careful," Jenn cautioned. "For your own sake, Meredith. In the meantime… I was wondering if you wanted to meet me for lunch sometime?" She gave a half-smile. "I'm starting to feel a little outnumbered in our world. There aren't many women my age that I like, so I figured getting to know you wouldn't hurt."

Meredith stared at her, and then gave her a glowing smile. "You've felt like that too, huh? When were you thinking?"

"Are you free tomorrow?"

"Actually, I think Chase has me doing a shoot…" Meredith said meditatively. "It's probably going to be impossible to get a free hour."

Jenn's mind raced. She had to be careful with this—she didn't want to scare Meredith off, but she was also pretty sure the girl's parents wouldn't wait for much longer. She lit on a scheme, and followed it impulsively. "Does she do that a lot?" she questioned casually.

"Do what?"

"Well, arrange your days. I mean, I've talked to her before and she seemed a little controlling—and I heard a rumor that she made you come tonight." Jenn inwardly winced, worried that she'd come on a little strong, but Meredith looked thoughtful—and a little pissed.

"She did," she said, clenching her jaw. "You're right. Screw her; does one o'clock at Talbot's sound good?"

"It sounds _perfect,_ " said Jenn, not without a small amount of satisfaction. "I'll see you then, okay?"

"Okay," Meredith said, and then turned to talk to someone who'd just tapped her on the shoulder.

The second Jenn was free from the conversation, Bruce pounced on her and dragged her back to the pillar she'd found earlier. "Well, aren't _you_ manipulative tonight?"

"Don't make me feel guilty," Jenn whispered, mindful of listening ears as she pressed her back against the cool marble. "I didn't have much of a choice; I needed her to be there _tomorrow._ "

"The end justifies the means, then?"

"In this case," she said, shooting him a look. He smirked.

"You know, I'm starting to find it hard to believe that you _didn't_ grow up in Gotham's high society."

"Bruce," she said flatly, but with a small hint of humor, "don't insult me."

"Come on. Watching you out there, you were like a chameleon. You go from biting Landlass's head off to sympathizing with Fille."

"I'm only like that when I have to deal with Gotham's glitterati," she sighed.

"Yeah. That's why I married you," he said, voice going huskier as he wrapped his arms around her.

She didn't resist, looping her hands behind his neck, but she glanced around. "Bruce, there are reporters everywhere."

"I have a reputation to uphold."

* * *

"Hey, Alfred," Jenn greeted him as she and Bruce came inside to find him reading peacefully. "How'd things go?"

"As expected," Alfred answered. "Mr. and Mrs. Nolan were quite eager to see their daughter, but I managed to persuade them that waiting quietly would be the best option—and was, in fact, the _only_ option available to them."

"Excellent," Jenn said, slinging her purse on the couch and stretching with a yawn. "I'll call them in the morning after church; tell them that we're meeting her. Hopefully this will all be resolved soon—Bruce, do you think the sight of her parents would be a strong enough trigger to her memory?"

"I'd be surprised if it isn't," he answered.

Alfred nodded. "Very good, sir, madam. I believe I'll retire now, if there's nothing the two of you need."

"No, Alfred, go to sleep," Bruce said. "We'll be fine."

Alfred took his leave, and Jenn glanced at her husband, yawning again. "What time is it?"

"It's got to be ten, eleven o'clock," he guessed.

"I need to get changed," she said, sounding sleepy, and left the room, heading for the stairs. He moved to follow, but as he reached the doorway, Jenn's phone went off.

He turned to look at her purse, in which the phone lay. Slowly, he went over and pulled it out, reading the screen. **UNKNOWN CALLER.** Purposefully, he pressed the call button and put it to his ear. "Hello."

There was a pause, and then a raspy voice said, "You're him, aren't you?"

"Hello, Malachi," Bruce said. The man on the other end gave a soft chuckle.

"I see she finally told you about me. About time, too. Mr. Wayne, let me ask you something—you love Jennifer, don't you?"

"You know, she prefers to be called Jenn," Bruce said conversationally. "And whether or not I love her is _my_ business, certainly not yours."

"As her husband, though, you want the best for her—that's what the relationship is about, isn't it? Well, I'm telling you now, the best thing for you to do for her would be to leave her alone _this second._ She deserves better than you, she needs to be freed from this horrible chain of men like you."

"That so?" Bruce asked, sounding slightly amused. "And I suppose you could offer her better?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. I intend to liberate her, as soon as the time is right."

"And when will the time be right?"

"That depends," Malachi said with a slightly mad giggle. "If you come to your senses, it could be tonight. If Jennifer finally realizes what's going on, it could be then. Or if I decide to act prematurely, it could be whenever I do that."

"Hm. Malachi, can I tell you something?" Bruce didn't wait for an answer. "You seem to take it for granted that I want the best for her. What you don't realize is that I'm a _very_ selfish being. If I've got someone like her in my life, it's not because I'm looking out for her—it's because I'm keeping her for my sake. That means that I'm not about to let her go, whether she leaves willingly or whether she's stolen by someone like _you._ She's not getting away from me any time soon."

There was a short, tense pause. "I'm very sorry to hear that, Mr. Wayne. That just means things will be more painful for you in the long run."

"Well," said Bruce pleasantly, "I need to go—but there's one more thing, Malachi."

"And what's that?"

"Stay the hell away from my wife."

Bruce turned off the cell phone and tossed it on the couch, various plans for Malachi running through his mind—the most innocent among them involving a phone tracer and a very sharp batarang. Still, he figured he could wait. He'd personally delivered a warning to the man—now he just waited to see if he bothered Jenn anymore.

Something told him that Malachi would.

* * *

"We're about ready to go here," Jenn said quietly into her cell phone. "You sure you don't want to come?"

"Ah… I'm sorry, Jenn, they need me at work in half an hour. Anyway, you seem to have it well in hand," Bruce answered.

Jenn laughed shortly. "One can only hope," she answered. She was sitting in her battered old truck outside the hotel, waiting for the Nolans to make it downstairs.

"Have you heard from Malachi?" he asked casually.

"Not since Friday. I think he's a little pissed at me." She paused. "Do you think he's been watching the mansion? I'm not sure, since he never pulls the I'm-watching-you comments—he doesn't even call me—when I'm there. But still—we haven't fenced off the Nocturne trails and it wouldn't be too much of a stretch to imagine that someone could wander into the grounds. We really need to work on the Manor's security, Bruce."

"I know," he said. "I'll look into the fencing today; it's been on my mind a while. I doubt he's been watching you here, though. The Manor's too big and it'd be too noticeable if someone followed you home."

"Yeah," she said pensively, and squinted at the hotel. "Look, Bruce, I've got to go. I think I see the Nolans."

"Call me afterwards."

"I will," she said, bade him goodbye, and climbed out of the truck.

"Mrs. Wayne?" asked the man, looking a little suspiciously at the beat-up old truck. He was tall and thin, a pair of silver-framed spectacles perched on his nose.

"Yes, sir. I assume you're Henry Nolan?"

"Yes." He was tense, she could tell, and his wife stepped forward to remedy the situation. She was short and plump, with bobbed gray-blonde hair and a cheerful-looking face. She'd be perfect in an apron that said 'World's Best Grandma,' up to her elbows in flour.

"Oh, Henry, relax a bit. This is the woman who intends to give us our daughter back." Despite her apparent optimism, Gina looked tired and stressed, as if she hadn't slept all night.

"I'm going to try," Jenn said softly. "I mean, the facts check out, but we're still not absolutely certain that this is her, or that she'll remember the two of you." Gina blanched, and Jenn sighed. "I'm hoping for the best, though," she added.

The three stood in silence for a second or two, and then Jenn checked her watch. "We need to get going," she said softly.

Henry ended up in the passenger side; Gina sat in the backseat. They drove for a while in silence, and then a pale Gina leaned forward to whisper to her husband: "What if it's not her?"

"Gina. You saw the picture. That's our daughter. I know it—she even had the birthmark."

"What birthmark?" asked Jenn curiously.

"She was born with a mark on her ear bud," said Henry distractedly. "It's reddish-brown, looks a little like a mole—not big or noticeable at all, but it was in the picture. We saw it."

Jenn started to smile. Now that she thought back, she could remember seeing the birthmark from time to time. "Well, then, Mr. and Mrs. Nolan… I think you've got nothing to worry about."

This seemed to alleviate some of Gina's fears, and she sat back for the rest of the trip. They reached the restaurant ten minutes before one, and headed in to the table Jenn had reserved—she'd had to pull some strings to get a table for four on such short notice. It was cloistered away and private.

Henry couldn't seem to relax, twitching and shifting in his seat, and Gina sat pale and composed. Jenn dealt with the waiter, letting him know that they were waiting on someone and wouldn't need to order till she got there.

Afterwards, all there was to do was wait. No one attempted to talk as the minutes ticked past. One o'clock came, and time continued to crawl. Gina got paler as the seconds passed, and Jenn tried to reassure her to no avail.

Finally, a commotion heading their way relieved the tension. All three turned to look as the sound of raised voices reached them, and then the tall blonde rounded the corner, followed by an irate Chase Miller.

"Stop _bossing_ me around! You aren't my mother," Meredith hissed at her manager.

"Don't you _dare_ talk to me like that," snarled Chase. "I picked you up out of the street—and when I get a hold of this Jenn woman, I'm going to—" At that point, she stopped, because Meredith had stopped.

The blonde had gotten an eyeful of the people sitting at the table with Jenn. Gina couldn't sit still, getting quickly to her feet and opening her arms. "Catherine."

Her eyes filled with confusion, looking from one to the other, then at Jenn, then at an aghast Chase. Finally, she looked back at the Nolans. "Mom?" she murmured.

Chase recovered quickly. "What are you talking about, Meredith?" she snapped irately.

"My… name's… not Meredith," murmured Catherine, reaching out towards her mother. Gina clasped her hand tightly, tears coming to her eyes.

Chase's fingers closed around Jenn's shoulder. "What did you _do?_ "

Jenn lifted an eyebrow and pried the thin hand off of her. "Don't touch me, please," she said pleasantly, standing up and gesturing Chase a short distance away from the table. "You should have answered me truthfully the first time around, Miss Miller."

The woman was smart enough not to continue denying it. "If you think I'm going to let them take Meredith from me—she's bringing in _far_ too much money, Mrs. Wayne. You're a businesswoman; I'm sure you understand."

Jenn raised her eyebrows. "I doubt you'll have a say in this. I intend to keep an eye on them, and if _Catherine_ wants to go home, then she will. And something tells me she's going to want to."

"Ms. Wayne!" Henry said from the table, and Jenn turned to see that Catherine was sitting down, looking dazed. "She's not moving," he said worriedly.

"She's probably in shock," Jenn said, moving to help, but Chase grabbed her arm. Jenn turned back immediately, swatting her hand away and holding up an index finger in warning. " _Don't_ touch me."

Chase's eyes were slits in her face. "You've made yourself an enemy today."

Jenn nodded thoughtfully. Eventually, she said, "I'm prouder to call you my enemy than I would be to call you my friend. Now, I'd suggest that you leave before I tell the restaurant staff that you've upset Catherine."

"This isn't over," Chase vowed, turning on her heel.

"Looking forward to the rest," Jenn said, shaking her head and watching to make sure the woman was, indeed, leaving, and then she turned to help the Nolans.

* * *

Meredith, or Catherine now, was indeed in shock. The sudden emergence of a whole flood of subconsciously repressed memories proved to be too much for her, and Jenn insisted on taking her to a hospital.

She stayed with the Nolans until the doctor cleared Catherine, and then went with them to check on her. She was alert, with a brightness in her eyes that Jenn hadn't ever seen before, a brightness that seemed to change the character of her whole face. It had worked better than Jenn had dared to hope.

There were tears and hugs, and Jenn stepped out into the hall for their reunion, feeling that it was too private a scene to intrude on. After a few minutes, though, Henry and Gina came out to find her. "She wants to talk to you," Henry said.

Jenn nodded slowly and went into the hospital room. Catherine was up on her feet, and when she saw Jenn, gave her a gentle smile. "I can't believe what you did."

Jenn shrugged awkwardly. After all, there was no telling her that the only reason she'd ever suspected that something was up was that Catherine had practically been stalking Bruce's alter-ego, and even then, he'd been the one to really consider it first. "People should help each other out; especially in Gotham."

"No, people don't do what you did. I can't even _imagine_ what sort of stuff you must have done to find them; I think Chase had me buried pretty well."

"It wasn't so hard. Bruce helped me." _More like_ I _helped_ Bruce.

"I owe you. _Big._ You gave me back my life."

"Hey, it was easier than I thought," Jenn said with a slight laugh. "I was worried that seeing them wouldn't be enough, that it needed to be something obscure like a smell or seeing something that reminded you of a childhood memory… I was really freaked out." A sly smile came over her face then. "So, are you and Batman still soul mates?"

Catherine started laughing, a little shamefacedly. "I tell you, I was like a different person. Right now, I can't _believe_ I ever said or thought some of the stuff I did, but then, it seemed perfectly normal. That poor _man,_ he must be scarred for life."

"That was what tipped me off," Jenn admitted. "I could tell things weren't quite right." The women paused in a brief, amiable silence, and then Jenn asked, "What are you going to do now?"

"I'm not sure," Catherine said slowly. "I suppose I could keep being a model, but right now, I really want to go home. Besides, Gotham's glitterati is _horrible._ I couldn't even stand them as _Meredith._ "

Jenn laughed ruefully. "Lucky you; you can escape them if you want to. You could even move somewhere else—Los Angeles or New York—if you want to pursue the model thing. I'm kind of doomed to put up with them."

"Chase is pretty mad, huh?" Catherine asked.

"Not that she has any right to be. I'm pretty sure she knew all about it and was just hiding it from you. I'm going to keep an eye on her from now on."

"Good." Catherine sighed a little wistfully. "I can't _wait_ to go home."

"On that note, I've got to run," said Jenn. "I need to get back to the Manor."

"Jenn, again—thank you."

"Trust me, it was worth it."

When Jenn left the room, the Nolans were waiting. Henry gravely shook her hand. "Thank you, Ms. Wayne. The past six months have been hell for us."

"I'm just glad I could help. It was definitely a good cause."

As soon as Henry let go of her hand, Gina threw her arms around her in a tight hug. "Dear, you feel _free_ to stop by any time you're in the area," she said, sounding close to tears. "You've given us back our daughter."

"Mrs. Nolan," said Jenn, gently hugging her back, "it was my pleasure."

* * *

The story of Catherine Nolan couldn't stay buried, of course. It was just too sensational. Gotham's top model mentally ill? The newspapers saw dollar signs.

Word was that Catherine had returned to Arkansas with her parents and was undergoing treatment from a psychiatrist to get things back on track. She was followed by some ambitious journalists and gave them simple interviews, outlining what had happened but not detailing.

Thankfully, Jenn was able to avoid involvement. Her role in the story came out, of course—though her husband was safe, much to her envy, as his part in the affair was secret—but Bruce had laid down the law. She didn't have to have a bodyguard, he said, but she couldn't go places by herself for now. When he could, he'd take her to and from work, and when he couldn't, Alfred would. Jenn didn't argue, instead rearranging her schedule so she didn't have to go in till around noon.

She couldn't help but feel restless, though. Three days had passed since the Nolan thing had been sent on its way to resolution, and she got the relentless feeling that they were just waiting for something to happen.

**Chapter Twenty-One**

"No… no, I don't think it's supposed to work that way," said Jenn, squinting at the book she held open, turning it sideways.

"It's in the _book,_ Jenn," Bruce remarked, standing behind her with his arms around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder as he looked along with her.

"Maybe the book's wrong."

"Okay. The book's wrong; you're right."

"There's no need to be sarcastic, you sassy boy."

" _Boy?_ "

"I lived in England for eight years—"

"Oh, yeah, pulling the 'England' card again," he mumbled.

"—and we _never_ did it that way. It always turned out right." She turned her head slightly, looking skeptical. "What are _you_ talking about, anyway? You can't cook."

"Well, neither can _you._ "

"You _didn't._ "

"I did."

She wriggled away from him. "All right, you brute, let me go."

"Where are you going?" he asked, complying and standing up straight.

"To prove myself right." She set the book down on the desk and moved from where she'd been standing in the middle of the study to the bookshelves lining the edge. Bruce watched in silence as she scanned the tall ledges, standing on tiptoe every now and then to brush a title with her forefinger. It was when she dragged an old, sturdy rocking chair over and climbed up to stand in the seat that he started shaking his head.

"Jenn… _what_ are you doing?"

"Proving myself right," she replied.

"You're going to fall," he said, coming close in preparation.

"Trust me, darlin', my feet are firmly planted," she drawled, reaching for a book on the top shelf.

"Yeah, on a rocking chair," he snorted. "It's not me that's going to fall and get bruised up."

"Bruce, remember where I lived for the first seven years of my life? I'm not going to fall."

"I'm here just in case."

"Gee, thanks," she said absently, flipping through the book. For a moment, she was immersed in the text, and then her face lit up and she bounded to the ground. "Aha! Read it and weep, sucka!"

Bruce bent over and checked out the passage she was pointing to. "Jenn, has it occurred to you yet that there might possibly be more than one way to do it?"

"Maybe," she allowed, "but my way's the _best_ way."

"No, the other method's faster."

"And the result is inferior. If you want quality, you've got to put in some time."

"Are you ready to test that theory?"

"Hey, bring it on, rich boy. You can't cook."

"Neither can you."

Jenn paused in the middle of an indignant expression, pasting on a look of sadness. "Bruce, when did we grow apart?"

He mocked her, putting a sorrowful expression on his face. "It's been happening so long, I can barely put a time on it. I think it started, though, when you said you could make a better sponge cake than the cook that held reign when I was little… yeah, that was about ten minutes ago."

Jenn lost her veneer of seriousness then and started laughing. Bruce looked down on her with an amused smile. "You sound like a kid," he remarked.

"Because it's _funny,_ " she gasped, loosing her footing.

"Whoa, careful," he said, catching her.

"You _know_ I'm the only person in the world who can trip over my own feet on solid ground but feel perfectly at home standing on a rocking chair," she remarked through laughter.

"All right, Giggles, settle down before you suffocate," he said affectionately.

"I'm good," she said, breaking away from him and controlling her amusement. "When did Alfred say he was getting back from the store?"

"Not for another hour."

"Hmm. I guess I'll have to find a way to amuse myself till he gets home and I can have intelligent conversation." Bruce raised his eyebrows as she left to collapse on the sofa, picking a book out of the stack on the stand next to it and opening it up.

"Intelligent?" he asked. She tipped the book down so he could see her merry eyes. "Hey, look who's talking."

"I'm not going to respond to that," she said, putting the book back up.

Bruce deliberated for a second, and then lit on a plot. He crossed the room to the sofa, sitting and then swiveling so that he was laying down, his knees bent so he'd fit, his head resting in her lap and obscuring her view of the book. It got her attention.

She raised her eyebrows and glanced down at him. "I'm trying to read."

"You can read later."

"I want to read now."

"Hmm." He thought for a second, and then grinned at her. "Too bad."

"Fine," she said, setting the book aside. "Jeez, you're like a puppy. A very big, dangerous puppy."

"But you like puppies."

"Much to my regret, I do," she said. "Attention-demanding little things." Absently, she started to comb her fingers through his hair. She'd always liked the feel of his hair—coarse, but soft and thick.

The phone chose that second to ring. The two of them stared at it, and then at each other. "Malachi's never called the land line," she pointed out.

"I doubt it's him," Bruce answered.

"Get up," she said, poking his head. He sat up so she could half-rise and stretch out to snatch the phone from its position on the coffee table. She sat back down and pressed the call button. "Hello?"

"Hey, Jenn-girl."

"Hang on." Jenn pushed the button for speaker phone, and then replied. "Hey, Lauren; it's been a while."

"Well, that's certainly not _my_ fault," sniffed the Englishwoman. " _I've_ had a wedding to plan. What's your excuse?"

"I have an empire to run," Jenn said amusedly.

"Aw… that's a good excuse. So, what are you doing?"

"Well, before you called… I was giving puppy-Bruce his daily dose of attention."

"Ew. Bruce doesn't look like a puppy; puppies are _cute_ with the potential for taking over the world. Bruce is ugly."

"Hi, Lauren," Bruce said, rolling his eyes.

"Ohh… I'm on speaker phone, aren't I?"

"Got it in one," said Jenn, hard-pressed to keep her amusement at bay. "You should watch what you say about people, anyway. Talking behind their backs isn't a good habit."

"Oh, Bruce is the only one I talk about behind his back."

"Thanks," he replied.

"And, Lauren, I don't much appreciate you calling my husband ugly. I must add that you're plain crazy if you don't value his looks," said Jenn. Bruce smirked at her and she rolled her eyes. "That wasn't a compliment, Bruce; that's just the truth."

"I like my men twiggy," Lauren said simply. "That way, I don't feel so tiny when I'm around them. Hence Josh. Seriously, Bruce, didn't you try to stunt your growth when you were a kid? You're like the Jolly Green Giant, except not green, and… not… so jolly. Okay, why aren't you talking? …Jenn, have you ever realized that your husband's scary?"

"It escaped my notice," Jenn answered.

"He threatened to kill me last time you guys came to visit."

Bruce shrugged, and Jenn said, "Well, I don't blame him. What he should have done was go around and charge people money for ridding the earth of you. Sort of an extermination business."

"Why are you defending him?" Lauren demanded. "Why not me?!"

"Well, let's think about that for a minute. Why on earth could I possibly want to defend my _husband_?"

"I've known you longer," Lauren said stubbornly. Jenn chuckled, and the Brit gave a heavy sigh. "Ah, it's no use. You two are getting along sickeningly."

"What makes you say that?"

"Aside from the obvious? Well, when you two pick on each other and then refuse to let anyone else tease, then you're getting along sickeningly well. When things are kind of tough, you're more serious, and during the _really_ bumpy spots, neither of you talk. It's crazy."

"Thank you for the analysis. When are you getting married? Is there a date yet?"

"No date, but we've finally settled on June. Josh wanted to be clichéd." Lauren gave a long-suffering sigh. "I gave in. I never wanted to be a summer bride, but then, I suppose you can't really marry in the winter here. It's too cold. And miserable. But at least I have an affectionate mother—she's getting back with a vengeance for not being allowed to plan your wedding; going into overload over here. Thanks, Jenn."

"Hey, blame Bruce!" Jenn said. "He was the one who wanted to get married so quickly."

"Thanks, Bruce."

"Blame Jenn," Bruce said. "She's the one who wanted to make it so covert. We could have flown you guys in a week beforehand and let Hannah have free reign."

"Oh," said Lauren. "Thanks, Jenn."

"Listen to him, sounding like he didn't have a hand in it! You're going to have to blame both of us, Lauren; both wanted it quick and quiet."

"Like an execution. Thanks, both. And, as for now, I've got to run. This conversation was a bit pointless, wasn't it?"

"As opposed to your brilliant jewels of wisdom that you so regularly drop on us?" Jenn asked sarcastically. Bruce snorted.

"That's enough sass from you, Missy! I'm going, so you and your _husband_ can get back to snogging, or whatever it was you were doing before I popped in. G'byee…" There was a click, and a dead line. Jenn cut off the phone.

"She's a pervert," she said, rolling her eyes. "Either that, or she's got a _lot_ of repressed sexuality. I sort of feel sorry for Josh. He has _no_ idea what he's getting into."

"Actually, I think she's on the right track," said Bruce, reaching for Jenn. She shrieked and twisted away when his hand brushed against her side, hitting a ticklish spot, and his eyes lit up. She saw the expression on his face, and her eyes widened in horror.

"Bruce, no!" she ordered. He pounced.

* * *

There was a puppy. Jenn wasn't sure _why_ there was a puppy, but there was one nonetheless, and it was on the TV. As an anchor, announcing the evening news.

Lauren was sitting cross-legged on the bed, playing solitaire with Josh—with one deck of cards. Jim Gordon was in a Batman suit and dancing the Macarena. Alfred, sitting in the corner, was holding an egg timer, and it kept going off, beeping and beeping.

Jenn slowly came out of the dream to realize that her cell phone was going off, lighting up in brilliant blue as it beeped relentlessly. She lifted her shoulders and head from the pillow, brushing some stray hair from her face, and reached for it, flopping back with a sigh and checking the screen as blessed sleep began to clear from her mind.

The screen read **RED-INC**. Someone at work was calling her. Wearily, she thumbed the call button and put it to her ear. "Hello?" she asked, too tired to pretend that she'd already been awake.

"Mrs. Wayne? Did I wake you up?"

She sighed. "Owen, how did you get this number?"

"Mr. Baker gave it to me. Listen, Jenn, there's a problem at work. You need to come in—I volunteered to call and tell you. When can you get here?"

"What time is it?" she wondered.

"Just after midnight. I'm sorry—if we could have avoided it, we would have, but—"

"Don't worry about it," she said tiredly. "I can probably be there in about a half-hour if the traffic's good."

"Okay. We'll see you when you get here." Jenn murmured something affirmative and hung up, then swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat there in the dark, trying to wake up all the way.

Bruce was obviously still gone—he'd left early tonight, figuring that if he worked hard and got lucky, he might be able to find their killer, if he had gotten his fangs from Batwings. He at least hoped to finish the list and eliminate suspects.

Alfred was probably asleep. She sighed, thinking for a minute. Bruce would probably want her to wake him up to take her, but Alfred had been looking a little stressed lately, probably the result of keeping up with two busy, temperamental young people. He needed all the sleep he could get.

Well, that cinched it. She could go alone this time—she'd just take her knife as a precaution. Reaching this conclusion, she got up, cut on a lamp, and started to dress.

Five minutes later, she silently crept out into the dark garage, and hit the unlock button on the keychain she'd selected at random. The car identified itself to her by lighting up, and she went to see that she'd selected the bright red Lotus Elise. She smiled contentedly; that was one of her favorite cars out of Bruce's vast collection.

She waited to accelerate until she was out of the gate, and then sped up, enjoying the solitary rural road. She passed near the entrance to Nocturne, and a few miles later hit the city. Traffic was decent, much better than during the day, and she was able to keep a relatively steady speed, weaving in and out almost absently, her driving on autopilot as she thought.

She'd been considering Gordon's trap a lot since he'd first brought it up. She understood why Bruce refused to let her help—she knew very well that he would never put her in any danger, whether or not she wanted to walk straight into it. It was his job to protect her, he said, and he took that job very seriously.

Despite this, she'd been toying with the notion of pulling it off covertly. She'd only thought about it, since half of her figured that Gordon would refuse to let her do it if he found out that she was doing so against Bruce's will. She also knew that if she did it, Bruce would find out, and he'd be furious, however it turned out. She wasn't sure if she was willing to risk another big fight.

The slight of the looming Redgrove tower was welcome, if slightly intimidating. Not many people were there at night, so most of the hundreds of windows were dark, the occasional bright spot looking lonely among the panes and panes of black. Jenn pulled into the lower level parking garage.

It was lit, but the light was fairly dim and very dark in some places, due to vandalism. It was hard to keep things pristine in Gotham. She parked a distance away from the few other cars interspersed throughout, and then got out, tucking her keys in her bag and reaching back to brush her fingers against the knife in her pocket, reassuring herself. This garage could be spooky, especially, she was discovering, at night.

She headed for the entrance to the building, but a voice behind her made her turn. "Jenn."

"Owen?" she asked, peering at him. He was about two dozen feet away, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt—an unusual sight for her, as he always wore a suit to work. A rumbling sounded, and from one of the parking levels above them, a black van appeared.

Owen gave her a slightly apologetic, mostly sardonic smile. "Sorry."

Jenn didn't have to be told that things were taking a decidedly bad turn. She turned and fled towards the building, dropping her bag, but the van screeched in front of her, cutting her off, and as she whirled and headed in the opposite direction, the door slid open and several men and black flooded out. "Get her, get her!" she heard.

Owen had moved quickly, and she collided with him on her way back to her car. He was bigger than she was and wasn't affected so much by the impact, grabbing her arms and holding her. "Here!" he yelled at his partners.

Jenn strained to escape, but Owen was strong and holding her without regard to her jerky movements. She just needed to reach the knife… she might be able to make them back off long enough for her to—

The squeal of tires was suddenly deafening, and Jenn looked up with a gasp to see a welcome sight—the Tumbler, sliding sideways into the garage and then hurtling at breakneck speed towards the group of black-clad men. They gave various shouts as they leapt out of the way, and before they could quite recover, the top slid back and Batman leapt out.

Jenn didn't know how he'd known, didn't know how he'd gotten there so quickly, but she wasn't pausing to contemplate it. Remembering that she _wasn't_ defenseless, she elbowed the suddenly-slack Owen, getting in a good shot—she hit him directly in the gut. He wheezed, but his grip only tightened on her, so she twisted and kneed him. He'd anticipated her target, though, so she missed by a few inches, hitting his upper leg. Infuriated, he drew back and hit her, knocking her into a slight daze.

In the meantime, Batman was going to work diligently. He didn't have the preferable encompassing darkness, but he fought without it, taking on three of the men at the same time. The fourth of them dove into the van and re-emerged with a gun.

He took Batman by surprise, as the latter was occupied with dispatching the other three. He shot at him, hitting him in the side, and Batman grunted slightly as the bullet hit the armor and bounced off, twisting to put the two last men between him and the shooter. Confusion reigned for a few seconds as the man with the gun yelled at his partners to get out of the way on one side and Batman continued pummeling them on the other. Another one dropped, and the second one quickly followed, depriving Batman of his shield.

The gunman saw his shot, and took it as Batman launched himself towards him. The bullet bounced off of his shoulder this time, just before he ploughed into the shooter, taking him to the ground. Batman got up. The gunman didn't.

The driver was smart enough to realize that he wasn't going to win out, and his tires screeched as he took off, leaving Owen.

Jenn had recovered a bit by now, and was fighting again. Owen was enraged at her lack of compliance, so much so that he failed to mind his surroundings, too occupied in hitting her again, and again. When he finally noticed that the shooting and shouting had stopped, he looked up to see a giant black shape hurtling towards him, and barely had time to get out a shocked, terrified screech before they collided. Jenn was jerked along for a second, and then Owen's grip failed and she fell to the side.

Batman wasn't showing any mercy. Owen was treated to blow after bone-splitting blow, the victim of a husband's fury. Finally, after he went limp, Batman added two hits for good measure, and then went to find Jenn.

She was getting up, looking slightly dizzy. He didn't touch her, just checked her over. The left corner of her mouth was bleeding, and the skin covering her right cheekbone had broken, backed by angry red and a menacing blue tinge. Very quietly, he asked, "Do you have your cell phone?"

"Yeah," she answered, disconcerted. She went to where she'd dropped her bag and fished around in it till she emerged with the small machine, showing it to him.

"Call the police; ask for Gordon. You're lucky—he's working late tonight. Tell him what happened and tell him where to find you. Does this parking lot have security?" He was still speaking very quietly. Unnervingly, she couldn't get the phrase 'calm before the storm' out of her head.

"It's supposed to, but this late at night the guys probably took off. They do that, I'm told, when there are only a few people left," she murmured, dialing.

"I'm going to see if they're hurt," he said, turning and stalking off, yards of black fabric billowing ominously behind him.

An answer at her ear distracted her, and she turned her attention to the phone. "Yes, please; I'd like to speak to Lieutenant Gordon." There was a moment's silence as she was redirected, and then she heard Gordon's tired voice, answering as if he expected to have to deal with something unpleasant. "Jim, it's Jenn Wayne."

"Jenn?" His tone of voice was tinged with disbelief. "It's kind of late, isn't it?"

"Yes, I know. Look… I'm in the parking lot of the Redgrove tower. I was called out here under the pretense that there was a problem at work, but when I got here, I was attacked… presumably by our _friends._ Batman was nearby and he took them out, so now I'm here with him and a few unconscious guys." Short and sweet. She could feel her knees shaking, a wave of weariness hitting her now that the adrenaline was getting away from her.

She could hear activity on the other side of the phone. "I'll be there in ten minutes." The line went dead.

Batman was back. "The guards are dead," he growled. His voice was deep; unpleasant, and Jenn winced. She'd known that these guys were capable of ruthless violence, evidenced by Loeb's murder, and a sudden wave of guilt hit her. Batman distracted her: "Did you get him?"

"Yes," she said, tucking the phone back into the purse. "He says he'll be here in ten."

"Okay. Now get in the car and go home."

She stared at him. "What?" she repeated. Surely Gordon would need a statement—Batman wasn't going to stick around long enough to talk to the police; he never did. He stared at her steadily, though.

"You heard me," he graveled.

Faced with that tone, she didn't dare argue. She got into the car, pulled around, and left the parking lot.

It was the calm before the storm.

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

Once at home, Jenn couldn't rest. She tried going back to sleep, knowing that it would be the smart thing to do, since she could delay Bruce's reaction to her leaving the house alone _and_ rest up for the encounter, when it finally came—but it was no use. Her mind was feverishly awake.

So, she got up and went to the living room, where she made an attempt to read. That didn't work, and so she gave up and began to pace.

Pacing was oddly therapeutic. She could focus on the tight motion of walking back and forth; she didn't have to think as much. When Bruce walked in, then, an hour or so later, looking foreboding, she was surprised that the time had passed so quickly. Then again, it always seemed to when one was dreading something.

He walked slowly into the room as she turned to face him, coming to a stop about five feet from her. He let the silence linger for a few seconds, and then asked quietly, "What did you think you were doing?"

Slowly, she shook her head. "I—"

"WHAT DID YOU _THINK_ YOU WERE _DOING_?" he shouted at her, making her flinch and step back. "Did I not _specifically_ tell you _not_ to leave the house unless you had _me_ or Alfred with you?!"

"I didn't know," she said softly.

"That's not an excuse," he said, throwing up his hands. "Do you even _realize_ what could have happened to you?"

She rubbed the bridge of her nose and her forehead harshly. "Yes, Bruce, I realize. Thank you," she said, on the defensive, slightly sarcastic.

He shook his head, looking incredulous. "Are you suicidal? Do you want to die so badly that you'll do the most utterly stupid things in search of it?" She didn't say anything, just lowering her head and waiting.

As quickly as he'd lost his temper, he regained his grip on it. He took a few steps and reached her, crushing her to him in a tight, possessive embrace. Just when she was beginning to feel the effects of going without oxygen for too long, he stepped back and put a hand beneath her chin, lifting her face and examining her more thoroughly. "Are you all right?" he asked, his voice steady now.

"I'm fine," she murmured. He reached up with his free hand and touched the wound on her cheekbone, making her wince.

"This doesn't look fine. It's already two different shades of purple. That lip's pretty messed up, too."

"I'll be all right," she said, pulling her face away. He let her go, but moved his hands to rest on her shoulders, holding her in place. After a second, she looked back at him. "How did you find me?"

A wry, humorless smile surfaced on his face. "You've been taking that knife most places lately. I just put a tracker on it—I knew if you left without one of us, you'd take that."

She nodded. "Oh," she said, and pulled away from him, heading for the entrance of the room. She heard him sigh.

"Jenn, stop," he said. She did, turning back to him with an expressionless face. "I'm sorry for yelling at you. I am."

It was her turn to heave a sigh, and she shook her head. "It's not that—not really. I'm just still a little freaked out… and to tell you the truth, my face stings like crazy." She shook off her grievances in favor of curiosity. "What happened?"

"After you left? I waited to make sure those guys weren't going anywhere, then got out when the sirens got close. I hung around and filled Gordon in on things the second he stepped outside the parking lot." He snorted. "He got his trap, all right."

"Bruce, I'm _sorry_ ," she said instantly. "Owen called, saying they had a situation at work—you weren't here, Alfred wasn't awake… I just figured it'd be easier to deal with it on my own."

"Owen…" he growled. "Was he the one hitting you?" She nodded. "I should have done worse."

"He's spineless, though. If Gordon wants someone to talk, he'll do it—providing he knows enough to actually say something of use." She hesitated, and then said, "Things are probably going to get worse, though. I mean, one encounter between me and Batman could be passed off as coincidence, worth mild investigation from these guys—but two, with you coming in to snatch me away from them?"

"They're going to get suspicious," he said grimly. " _Very_ suspicious. It's going to get even more dangerous. I think I'm going to send you to England."

He said it so seamlessly that it took her a minute to grasp it. The second she did, though, she said, "No."

"Jenn—" he began in his my-word-is-law tone.

"No," she replied, in her you-just- _try_ -to-make-me-listen voice.

"I'm not going to sit here while you get attacked from all sides by some delusional nutcase! You know something, Jenn? If you'd been taken into that van tonight, I guarantee I would have never seen you again. You're _not_ allowed to ask me to live through that fear again."

"What, you don't think Lauren will have questions?" she demanded.

"Stories are easy to make up," he said stonily.

"If this guy is as determined as he seems to be, then he'll _follow_ me wherever I go," Jenn growled. "Separated from you, I'll be easy prey."

"I want you to go," he said flatly.

"Then you're literally going to have to drag me onto the plane, chain me to the seat, and get off right before takeoff. There's no other way I'm going."

"Well, if that's what it takes…" She was struck with a sudden realization. Bruce wasn't kidding. He was honestly prepared to do all that it took to remove her from harm's way. She quickly cast out for a solution to the problem and lit on one without much trouble.

"What if we just fake it?" she questioned.

"What?"

"Well, pretend that I'm going to England, make a to-do about it, send out the plane—but let me stay here, under wraps. No one would know, and I'd be safer than pretty much anywhere else."

"Hiding in plain sight," Bruce said quietly. He didn't look opposed to the idea. "I don't know, Jenn. I need to think about it."

"Then think about it," she told him. He stared at her, and then rubbed his forehead, suddenly looking exhausted. "You need some sleep," she told him, stating the very obvious in hopes that he'd listen to her, for once.

He shook his head. "I should go back out. It's only two o'clock."

"Bruce." She reached forward and took his hand. "Please. Sleep on it. We can talk tomorrow."

After a few more seconds, he agreed.

* * *

Christopher Thornton strode quickly through the hall of the luxurious penthouse, something impatient about his steps—he bore news that couldn't wait. He was well aware that it was five-thirty in the morning, and he was also aware that his brother was an early riser.

Guards were at the door, but they waved him in. He was very conscious that if he had been someone else, they'd have searched him thoroughly—but Christopher was the only person that Henry really trusted. He figured that that would definitely make things easy if he ever got greedy for the power that Henry wielded, but the man had nothing to fear from him. Christopher was completely content with being the power behind the throne—plus, he and his brother loved each other.

Henry was standing there, dressed, looking out over the city. The room was dark. Christopher came within a few paces of him and then stopped. "We have news."

"How did the expedition to catch that Jenn woman go?" he asked deliberately.

"That's the news," Christopher said. "They failed. Most of them are in custody right now; only the driver escaped."

Henry turned slowly. "Do you have something to tell me to balance that out?"

"I do. The _reason_ they failed was that the Batman interfered." Henry's eyes visibly lit up, and Christopher gave him a thin smile. "That's the second time they've had contact. Things just got a lot more certain for us."

"Yes, indeed…" said Henry calculatingly. Absently, he asked, "What's the news on the men in custody?"

"Most of them are solid. They won't talk—but that toady, our plant in Redgrove Incorporated, he's untrustworthy. He'll sing in a day or two, after he gets a taste of jail."

"Hmm. Arrange to have him cleaned. He knows enough to get us in trouble. Christopher, may I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"When did Bruce Wayne return to Gotham City?"

Christopher squinted. "Jenn's husband? I don't know… must be almost two years since he got back."

"Yes," said Henry, a pleased smile spreading slowly over his face. Christopher caught sight of that eerily intelligent, albeit slightly mad, gleam that sometimes surfaced in his eyes as he worked something out. "And when did Batman first appear?"

"Two years ago," said Christopher slowly, as his brother's angle dawned on him. "Wait a second… you're not thinking—?"

"Bruce Wayne is Batman." There was a sense of satisfaction to the words, but Christopher couldn't credit his thinking.

"No. No, he can't be—Wayne's an idiot. We know Batman's so much smarter than the guy…"

Henry waved a dismissive hand. "Intelligence—or lack of it, more accurately—can be feigned. But if you think about it, it all makes sense. Jenn Wayne has twice had dealings with him—the second time, he arrived when it was a little too convenient for him to have just been in the area. He reappeared at the same time Batman made his debut. He has a reason to hate crime—his parents were murdered right in front of his eyes."

Things began to make sense to Christopher, and he started to smile. "This is… this is overwhelming. We can have him taken out now, easy—after all, we know where to find Bruce Wayne, don't we?"

"I believe we should strike at his home this time. He won't be expecting us there. It'll be easiest to get in at evening, when he's not at home, and we can wait for him to return."

Christopher nodded. "Does tonight sound good?" At Henry's affirmative, he smiled again. "Good. We'll do it."

That was the thing about his brother. He was looney toons, battling depression and a host of other mental things, but every now and then, a true stroke of genius shone through. Christopher just had to watch after him, make sure he kept his eyes on their goal. He'd suspected some suicidal tendencies before this all began, and he was careful not let the stress build up for Henry.

"Good," said his brother, and turned away, ending the conversation.

* * *

Morning dawned slowly, growing old before Jenn woke up. Bruce was still asleep, and a violent discoloration on his shoulder made her squint and look closer. Eventually, she remembered the gunshots he'd suffered the night before, and sighed. That wasn't the only place he'd gotten shot, either, she'd bet—carefully, she lifted the sheet and spotted another big, multi-colored bruise on his side.

She sighed. Bruises like that were no joke; he'd probably be in pain for a week or so. As she reached up to rub her eyes, the heel of her hand brushed against her own injured cheekbone and a flash of pain made her recall that she'd been bruised up a bit, too.

Well, she'd better go see what the damage was. Careful not to disturb Bruce, she got out of bed and went to the bathroom, where she examined her face in the mirror. The broken skin was surrounded by red and scabbed over, and around it, the bruise had blossomed grotesquely, several different shades of purple, yellow, and brown. The side of her mouth didn't show any sign of trauma, at least—it was just very sensitive to any contact and felt hot.

She ignored the mild injuries, brushing her teeth and running a brush through her hair before going back into the bedroom. Bruce was up and going through the usual drill of pushups, and she couldn't help but wish that he'd stop for once, give his body a chance to recover. It could be worse, though—she could see him trying to push through it with a torn muscle.

He didn't speak when he got up, going into the bathroom to brush his teeth and shave. Jenn crossed the room to the desk, pulling out the chair and curling up in it, waiting for him to finish. A tap on the door brought her from her slightly withdrawn state, and she called for Alfred to come in.

The butler entered, and looked shocked. For a second, she couldn't figure out why, and then realized that he hadn't seen the bruise. She smiled wryly. "You should see the other chick."

"What happened?" he demanded. She shook her head.

"I was stupid," she answered ruefully. "Went out when I shouldn't have, and almost got abducted. Luckily, Bruce showed up as his alter-ego and took care of it, and I escaped with this lovely piece." She gestured to her face. " _He's_ worse off, though. Took two bullets to the torso; the bruises are a nice bit of work."

Alfred still looked a little stunned. "Why didn't you wake me up?" he wanted to know.

"We had it in hand. Plus, you'd have just been privy to a nasty shouting match. You were better off asleep."

"Madam—" he said, looking upset.

"We're fine," she said reassuringly. "At least—I think we are. We need to talk some things out in a minute; I'm waiting for him to finish up."

Alfred nodded immediately, understanding. "I'll have breakfast ready when you come down," he said, and quietly withdrew.

A minute later, Bruce came out. Jenn gave him a humorless smile. "I like the war wounds," she told him. "People are going to think you abuse me, since they wouldn't be able to see yours—though, if it makes you feel better, I think yours are much more impressive." She was in one of her odd moods again. It happened when things were tense.

Bruce slowly went to sit on the foot of the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Better than you, I think," she said. "I heard that _that_ much pain focused around the torso can make you pretty nauseous."

"I'm fine," he said shortly. "I've been thinking about your suggestion last night. I think it's… a decent idea."

"Meaning we're going to try it out?"

"Well, you can't go in public with that massive bruise on your face," he said. She nodded, conceding the point to him and feeling immensely cheerful all of a sudden. She knew that things were turning rather grave, but the fact that she was going to get to stay made her feel better immediately.

"Good. I'll call Edward in a few minutes; tell him that I've got to run over to England for a couple of days for a family emergency. We'll send the jet, in case anyone's watching."

"You understand that this means you can't leave the house."

"I'm not stupid. I'll ignore calls, stay inside, be a general pain to you and Alfred…"

"I'm serious."

"So was I." She fixed him with an earnest stare. "Do you think Gordon's found anything out by now?"

"I hope so," he said, looking wearied already. "I hate these guys. They have connections everywhere, people doing their work, but they're so hard to find—nobody's ever high enough in status to know who the head is."

"Maybe the PD will have luck," she said. He didn't look particularly hopeful, so she changed the subject. "How's the vampire hunt going?"

He paused. "I'm going to finish the list tonight. If I'm lucky, I'll find the killer. Worst-case scenario, I've eliminated a lot of suspects and wasted time, and I'll have to find another shop that installs vampire fangs."

"Okay," she said with a soft sigh. "Good luck." She stood up then, reaching a hand out to him. He took it and pressed a kiss to the palm. "Alfred popped in for a second; was shocked to see me looking like this. I'd forgotten he didn't know. Anyway, he's got breakfast ready for us downstairs."

"Go on," he said distractedly. "I need to think."

Jenn looked at him for a minute, trying to guess which conundrum was occupying his mind, but after a second quietly slipped from the room, leaving Bruce to his thoughts.

* * *

He left as soon as it was dark. Things had gotten too intense to waste a second of cover; he had too much to do. First things first, he stopped by to talk to Gordon. He carefully made his way into the office, grateful not for the first time for Gordon's tendency to work in near-dark, and spoke quietly. "Are they talking?"

Gordon jumped slightly, but recovered quickly, used to it. "Not yet," he said, not needed to ask to know what Batman was talking about. "It won't take long, though, I think. In the meantime, we've followed through on that name—Thornton, in connection with Boss. Came up on an empty house. I think he's gotten wind of us."

"Keep questioning them," Batman cautioned. "Call if you need me." Quietly, he vanished from the room, leaving Gordon to his work.

After a few hours spent taking out general predators, he had more vampire work to tend to. There were three more people on the list—he was on 'Angelo Stratford.' He headed purposefully for the address.

The apartment was dark, from the window at least. He might have gone on to the next person and come back later if he'd had more time, but he was impatient now, wanted this resolved. He prowled around till he found an unlocked window and then pushed it open, slipping inside to look for himself.

The walls were covered with evidence of the occult. Whoever this guy was, he was deep into it, and Batman felt a tingle of intuition at the back of his neck. He took a look at the books stacked on the single ramshackle shelf in the rickety apartment— _Lust for Blood, Bloody Bathory,_ and _Dracula_ were among the titles, and the rest followed in that manner.

The hair on the back of his neck suddenly rose, and he turned in time to block a sudden blow from a shadowy figure that seemed to appear from nowhere. The way the person moved combined with its size made him estimate that it was likely a man in his early or mid-twenties—likely Angelo, and probably the person he was looking for.

Batman's fist caught his assailant right across the jaw, and he fell hard to the ground. As he moved to follow up, though, the man sprang up silently and ran.

He was fast. Batman followed immediately, but he was burdened by the armor in the narrow hallways, plus Angelo was on his home turf. He lost him after a minute, and drew back to contact the police.

The second he was on the line with Gordon, he gave him a brief explanation and told him the address. Then, he shut the phone and went to track his killer.

* * *

Gordon was the first one into the apartment. He hit the lights, only to find that they were uncooperative, and so he fished out his flashlight and began shining it on the walls. The icons of the occult jumped out at him from everywhere, and he winced. "Pretty sure _this_ isn't a dead end."

Cody Hale was behind him, and he raised his eyebrows. "Just cause someone's interested in this stuff doesn't make them a murderer."

"No, not necessarily. That's why we've got to look into it." Gordon moved to the only other door in the apartment and slowly, carefully pushed it open, and then shone his flashlight around the room it yielded to. Slowly, an expression of horror spread over his face.

"Holy shit."

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

There were pictures—hundreds of them, pinned to the walls. They started with Amber Flynn, the vampire's first victim, and spanned the rest of the women. It was the last fifty or so pictures, though, that were the cause of Gordon's exclamation of horror.

Jenn Wayne's face peered at him from dozens of different facets. The danger to her suddenly became very real, and he stepped back from the room, mind working feverishly. "Do we have a number for the Waynes?"

"I'm sure I could find one," said Cody confusedly.

"Get it," Gordon said. "Now. Jenn's in trouble."

Batman returned about quarter of an hour later, before Cody was able to find that elusive number. Gordon was looking in-depth at the apartment, waiting for CSI to get there, and looked up at the noise at the window.

"I lost him," Batman said grimly from the fire escape.

"That's okay," Gordon said quickly. "I think I know where he's going. Come here."

The giant shadow came inside followed him effortlessly across the small apartment, stopping when Gordon reached the open doorway and stopped, handing him his flashlight. "Take a look."

Slowly, Batman took the light and shone it throughout the interior of the room cautiously. The light shone on Amber Flynn first and slowly worked its way around the room, till finally it landed on the photographs of Jenn. Batman stared, and then exhaled slowly, taking a step back.

"Yeah," Gordon said grimly, moving into the doorframe to look once again for himself. "I figure he's headed there now. I'm about to send someone out to the Waynes immediately—I just hope they're not too—"

He turned to find that Batman had vanished. "—late," he finished. He shook his head, but he'd gotten used to that by now. He could only hope that the man arrived in time.

* * *

Angelo Stratford was born into a privileged family in Miami, Florida. His father ran a law firm; his mother was an accomplished spinal surgeon. He had a big brother and a little sister. He attended an expensive high school and hung with the popular clique. Somewhere, though, something went wrong.

It didn't start with movies, videogames, or associating with shady people. No, it started with a research paper. He chose to research vampire folklore, and got fascinated.

At first, it was innocent enough—watching vampire movies, reading vampire books, immersing himself in the mythology. Soon, though, his family noticed a difference. He stopped going to church; shied away from the sun. He spooked his little sister by calmly informing her that vampires were _very_ real. She told on him, and his parents, after discovering that he was serious, took him to a psychologist.

Angelo was a bright boy, manipulative from years of persuading everyone from his parents to his teachers, and very quickly faked his way through it, saying abashedly on the first session that he'd just been teasing and that he hadn't thought it would go so far. The psychologist was suspicious, but after a while admitted that there was nothing wrong with the boy that he could find.

Word of his episode got out, and slowly he was excluded from the popular group. He didn't mind; he started hanging out with some people who were interested in him. At one point, a girl asked if he _really_ believed in vampires. He responded that he did. She then went on to ask if he _was_ one. He responded with an eerie, "Not yet."

One morning soon after his twenty-first birthday, his parents checked their bank account to find seven thousand dollars missing. Calling the college he was attending, they were unable to reach him. They never heard from him again.

Angelo had moved to Gotham City. Later he would explain that it was perfect, that the sun rarely shone there and that all of the corruption was a vampire's paradise. He rented an apartment and, wisely knowing that he wouldn't be able to live for long on his stolen money, he started investigating Gotham's vampire underworld and soon got a job at one of the clubs.

He believed he'd been turned by a female friend of his that he'd become close to. He would describe it later as "An incredible experience… both the best and most horrible thing I've ever been through." They drank small amounts of one another's blood and believed that the transformation had occurred.

Angelo didn't consider that this "new reality" was created by his psyche—otherwise, that it was all in his head. He believed that, while he could survive temporarily on "human food," sooner or later he would need to consume blood. And so he started his hunt.

He began to single out women, following them, photographing them, and striking when he was ready. He didn't think anything was special about them—and then he found Jennifer Wayne.

He remembered where he'd seen her first. He'd been visiting a friend at Redgrove, Inc—not all of his kind was as fortunate at he; some had to work during the day at places that didn't compliment their natures—and on the way down, the elevator had stopped, and she'd stepped aboard. He didn't know what drew him to her—she was a normal woman, pretty but nowhere near exceptionally so, not tall, not striking… but he knew, as he watched her bent over her cell phone, that she would be the next.

In the lobby, he managed to find out that she was the CEO. _That_ had surprised him, but also pleased him—she'd be easier to research, to find out about. Reading through her past, he found that her mother was killed and that she'd been the one to find her, and grew more and more excited. Exposed to blood so young in life—he began to sense a kindred spirit.

He started to follow her when he could—he wasn't able to spy on her at that massive mausoleum she lived in; there were doubtless cameras and it was too big to follow her every move while she was inside. Still, he dedicated his days to trailing her. He caught some sleep when she went home, then went to work, and then the next morning started the whole thing over again.

He didn't always hide; before he began contacting her he would often be in plain sight, taking pictures and watching, knowing that he'd be dismissed as part of the paparazzi. Once she even spotted him and waved at him.

His plan evolved. Soon, his plan was to turn her, to free her from the burden of everyday existence and take her along with him. He began calling her, preparing her for this. Then, things like complicated. Batman attacked him in his apartment. Things were being set in motion _now_ , and with that in mind, he moved.

* * *

The house was unnaturally quiet. The stillness was almost oppressive, and it was that stillness that, in the end, woke Jenn up. It was rather sudden, just an opening of the eyes, feeling wide awake, a sense that something was wrong. It was Alfred's day off… perhaps he hadn't returned yet. Maybe that was what had her worrying.

She glanced over at the clock. It was 12:03 in the morning, and she turned her head again, staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out why she'd woken up. Her eyes, used to the blackness behind her eyelids, could see the shadowy shapes of the room easily with the assistance of the dim light from the alarm clock and from the moon behind the blinds.

After a second, she gave up trying to figure it out or trying to go back to sleep. She pulled the covers from her legs and sat up with a sigh, adjusting the strap of her gray camisole and then fiddling with the drawstrings of her fitted black gym pants, trying to delay getting up and cutting on the light, though she'd inevitably have to.

That was when the first sound came. There was a quiet crackling, and she tilted her head, trying to place it. Then, a voice: "Time's up…"

She stilled immediately. She knew the voice all too well—it was Malachi. The only thing that kept her from bolting for the door immediately was the fact that it was slightly tinny and followed by more crackling, telling her that he was using the intercom system.

The fear was seconded, but not replaced, by a sudden flare of anger. This was _her_ home, and he dared to come in and toy around with her? As the heat of fury combined with the adrenaline caused by fear pumped through her veins, the voice continued: "Come to me now. I'm waiting for you, Jennifer…"

Quietly, part of her mind asking her if she'd gone insane, she got up from the bed and stole to the shut door. Very carefully, she opened it and peeked out. The hall was lit by the long windows that bordered it on one side, the nearly-full moon shining full into the room. She carefully checked from every angle to make sure no unpleasant surprise was waiting for her, and then slipped out, keeping away from the windows. As she moved, her mind worked feverishly.

There was an intercom system in most of the rooms that they used often. He could be in the kitchen, one of the living rooms, the library, Alfred's room (heaven forbid), the study… there were too many places and no way to narrow down the source of the taunt.

She was tempted, when she reached the stairs, to slide down the banister, if only because it was faster. She didn't, thankful for her bare feet as she quickly descended the bare marble stairs, as they made much less noise than shoes would. The second she hit the ground, she looked around—the main foyer didn't have many windows, so it was dark and shadowy. She couldn't tell if someone was lurking there, waiting for her.

That knowledge made her extremely uneasy, so she quickly moved into the kitchen, where there was a little more light. She checked out the room and then moved to a shadowed spot, pausing to think.

More crackling startled her. He was singing softly, and the sound sent chills down her spine. "The eensy-weensy spider… went up the water spout… down came the rain, and washed the spider out…"

She straightened up, her flood of wrath renewed at the taunting sound. She walked briskly to the counter and pulled open the drawer where cooking utensils were kept, and from it she drew a large butcher knife of near meat-cleaver proportions. She tested the edge carefully with a finger, and nodded with satisfaction. Alfred had kept it razor sharp.

The possession of an effective weapon gave her a new sense of courage, and she gripped the handle tightly, holding it next to her unobtrusively. Next, she moved across the kitchen to the intercom, pressing the button hard and holding it down. "Where _are_ you, Malachi?" she questioned in a slightly sing-song voice, disguising her fear, pushing it back, behind her level fury.

She let go of the intercom and listened. After a few seconds, the system crackled. "Come and find me."

Her eyes darted back and forth, checking again even though she knew that there was no one but her in the room. "Where's Alfred?" she asked calmly.

He let her hear his laughter. "Don't worry about him. He's not at home. It's just you and me, Jennifer… where _is_ your husband?"

Jenn smiled grimly and abandoned the intercom. Bruce was gone and would be for a while, so unless she could get some help on the police end, she'd be fighting this by herself. She found the kitchen phone and turned it on, listening for a dial tone, but it was dead. She turned it off without much surprise. She was alone, then.

The hopeful thought darted across her mind—she could hide, find one of the cubbyholes and stay there, waiting for Bruce to come home. The more courageous side of her repelled the idea immediately. She'd been toyed with and taunted by this son of a bitch one too many times; she was _not_ going to just huddle away in fear of him. She had a knife, and she was pissed.

She began to prowl the house, moving cautiously, unwilling to be taken by surprise. Every now and then, he'd murmur things into the intercom, sometimes talking to her, others, speaking in what sounded like a foreign language but might have just been gibberish. She ignored it.

She'd circled back to the main foyer when she saw him. He was standing on the other side of the room, a dark silhouette, unmoving, presumably watching her. She stood up straight and felt a wash of adrenaline, staring at him and keeping a steady hold on the knife.

That was when the doorknob popped out of the massive front door, skidding across the marble floor and coming to a stop between them. They both turned to look, a little stunned at this new development, as a hand slipped through the hole where the knob had been, reached up, and unlocked the deadbolt, then pushed the door open. A group of about six men entered the house, lead by a slender, well-dressed man, who looked deliberately at the two of them.

Jenn blinked. "Who are you?"

He raised his eyebrows at her. "Christopher Thornton. Who are you?"

"Jenn," she answered, still trying to grasp this new development and trying to figure out what these men, who didn't look like thieves, could want at the house.

He nodded in understanding, and then glanced at the still Malachi. "Ah. And who is he?"

"My stalker," Jenn said, her fingers tightening on the knife. "What are you doing, breaking into my house in the middle of the night?"

"Looking for your husband," Christopher said pleasantly. "Is he around?"

"Not at the moment," she said tightly.

He shrugged, not seeming overly concerned. "Ah, well. You'll have to do. Derek, do the lady a favor and shoot the stalker."

Jenn and Malachi moved in unison, breaking in opposite directions. She heard a silenced gunshot followed by a bullet pinging off of a hard surface, so she figured Malachi had escaped from harm, but she wasn't particularly worried about him right now. She was too busy trying to run and not fall on the knife she was carrying.

Behind her, she heard Christopher ordering most of the men to follow her. She quickly began to vary her route, twisting and turning throughout the rooms, and she was glad that she'd learned the layout of the mansion so thoroughly that first month of her stay—it would definitely figure in this unfolding conflict.

She could hear them behind her, first many voices, then fewer as they split up every time there was more than one possible way she could have gone. Figuring it would confuse them even more if she wasn't even continuing to run ahead of them, she hid the second she was able, ducking behind a suit of armor located in an alcove in Thomas Wayne's old study.

She hadn't come in this room often. She knew that Bruce had reshaped it after the fire, exactly the way it used to be, and left it untouched, much as he had Martha Wayne's favorite living room. She also knew that Bruce came in here when he was vastly troubled, seeking some form of comfort from the remnants of his father's presence. For that reason, she respectfully stayed distant, feeling that it was too private for her to intrude.

Now, though, she was starting to understand how Bruce was able to derive that level of comfort. Thomas's kind eyes, looking down at her from a recreation of a family portrait lost in the fire, painted when Bruce was about six, were reassuring, and she felt her breathing slow down and shoulders unhitch.

There was a noise at the entry of the room, and she stilled, remaining motionless as she watched out of the corner of her eye. The intruder sniffed around the room suspiciously, but left quickly, probably afraid that she was still running and getting even further away from him.

Jenn relaxed slightly and took advantage of the respite, thinking ferociously. She'd been fairly confident that she could deal with Malachi, with her numerous stints at the punching bag combined with the knife, but six more men—no, there wasn't a chance she could tend to all of them.

She could run for the garage and try to escape using one of the cars. That idea didn't sit well with her; she didn't want to leave the manor in the hands of destructive strangers. She could stay hidden and pray for them to give up and leave, or… she could go to the cave. She stood up straighter as the thought struck her. Yes—if she could make her way to the nearest entryway to the cave, unfortunately across the house from her current location, she wouldn't be found, and she'd be able to alert Bruce the second he got home.

Her mind was made up. It was perhaps the most dangerous of the options, but it was the most sensible one, to her. Cautiously, she slid out from behind the armor and went to the doorway.

The next few minutes were nerve-racking. She could hear the men combing the house, searching for her, and every time she heard a noise nearby she'd duck into the nearest hiding place—behind a pillar, a bookcase, curled up in a window seat—until she thought the danger had passed.

For some reason, she was reminded of the games of _Murder in the Dark_ she'd played as a teenager with the Maltons. There was a detective, a murderer, and two or more hostages, determined by the drawing of clandestine cards. The players hid or moved about in pitch dark until some poor soul was found by the murderer and was privy to a whispered, "You're dead." The lights would come on when the hostage uttered a scream, everyone would group around the body, and the detective would come forth and attempt to decide who was the murderer out of the assembled people. If the murderer killed the detective, he won. If the detective guessed wrong, the murderer won.

Either way, the odds were in the murderer's favor. The memory wasn't a particularly reassuring one, though the adrenaline pumping through her body was the same, if far more intense.

It was in one of the moonlit hallways, stealing towards the room that would finally liberate her from this game, if only temporarily, that the unthinkable happened. She was had passed one of the dining rooms, only to hear a noise behind her and turn to see one of the men sneaking up. The second he realized that his cover was blown, he leapt at her.

The knife slid into his stomach with impossible ease. His eyes went wide; his mouth gaped before she even realized what had happened. When she felt something warm and wet on her hands, things became extremely clear. With a gasp, she drew the knife back swiftly, eyes wide with horror as he fell at her feet, curled up around the wound. Forgetting that she was supposed to be hiding, she took two steps back, lifted the blade and looked at it.

The thick red liquid was coating the blade almost up to the hilt, lit eerily by the light streaming in from the windows. The same substance covered her fingers, and the smell of blood permeated the air, metallic, sickening.

Gasping again, more sharply this time, she dropped the knife as if it had burned her. It clanged to the floor, shedding blood as it went, and she stepped back slowly. Unexpectedly, someone grabbed her by the shoulder.

She spun around, letting out a reflexive scream that was muffled by his hand on her mouth. She recognized Bruce as he towed her swiftly into the room he'd presumably come from, a room with an entrance to the cave. He didn't say a word or uncover her mouth till he'd opened up the passage and they'd slipped inside, the wall sliding shut behind them, then he let her go. She failed to take advantage of the new freedom.

"Jenn." His voice was sharp with worry as he clasped her wrists, bringing them up in front of her. "Jenn, whose blood is this?"

Her thoughts were sluggish; it took her a moment to realize that he was worried that it belonged to her. She shook her head ferociously. "It's not mine," she said, having difficulty finding the words to express what she wanted to say. "One of the men… he… I had a knife, and…"

"You stabbed him." The daze wasn't wearing off, but she forced herself to concentrate anyway. She didn't have time for weakness. With a flash of clarity she realized that he might be angry at her. He spent his nights dealing with criminals in a nonfatal way, and here she was, tearing that down in their own home.

"I'm s…sorry," she said, her voice hitching. "He jumped towards me, and…" Bruce's next words stopped the apology that wanted to come.

"What the _hell_ do you have to be sorry about?" he demanded violently. "Who knows what he was going to do? You were defending yourself. You haven't done anything wrong." She heard the words, but couldn't rid herself of the nausea in the pit of her stomach, couldn't stop staring at her blood-coated fingers. Bruce, seeing this, grabbed her by her shoulders, making his grip hurt. " _Jenn._ Look at me!" She did. " _You haven't done anything wrong_ ," he said, stressing each word. He looked straight into her eyes for a second before asking, "Okay?"

"Okay," she murmured. She didn't feel like she could say anything else.

"All right. I need you to concentrate, okay? There's more than one person in there. Do you know who they are?"

"Malachi."

"I know him; who are the others?"

She shook her head. She couldn't think through all the fuzz… "I don't know. I never… I didn't recognize them. One said his name was Christopher… Thornton…"

There was recognition in his expression. "How many?"

She shook her head. "Five? I… I don't…"

"Okay. Don't worry about it. Jenn, you're in shock, or I'd send you down to the cave. For now, I want you to sit here, wait for me."

Her mind was still foggy, but she was able to comprehend that he was leaving, leaving to go out into danger. "No," she said instantly. "You can't… not without me."

"Jenn, _look_ at you," he said firmly. "You're not going to be able to move well like this. I'll work a _lot_ better if I know that you're safe. No one's going to find you here. Let me handle it."

Heedless of the blood on her hands now, she reached out, grabbing his arm. "Bruce, no," she pleaded, feeling her eyes fill with tears in her state of weakness. "Don't go… he said they're after _you._ "

"Hey, hey," he said gently, cupping her face with his hands and looking down comfortingly at her. "Come on, Jenn. I do this every night; only difference is that I won't be weighed down by the suit."

"No," she repeated. "No. Don't."

"Shh… hush, Jenn," he murmured, hugging her to him. "I have to. Now let me go, okay? Let me go." Slowly, she relaxed her grip, and he let her go. "I'm coming back to get you. I promise you."

"Don't make promises you don't know if you'll be able to keep," she whispered. He stared at her for a minute.

"I promise I'm coming back," he said adamantly. "Okay?"

She turned her head to stare at him. He looked back at her for a minute, and then turned and slipped from the passage.

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

Bruce moved swiftly once out of the passageway, his posture tense and alert, feeling both light and vulnerable without the armor. He ran into trouble just outside the room—a man was bending over the wounded man he'd seen briefly earlier, and turned when he sensed something wasn't right.

Bruce was too close by then, and he swiftly took the man down with some well-aimed blows. As the man subsided into unconsciousness, Bruce noted grimly that he had a gun. That was bad news; it meant that the others likely had firearms as well. He'd have to be very careful.

He took a few seconds to look over the wounded man. He was bleeding pretty heavily—Jenn hadn't given him a flesh wound; the knife laying a few inches away was bloody up to the hilt—but Bruce figured that if he was sent to the hospital in time, he'd make it. Right now, though, that wasn't Bruce's priority. He had to purge his home of these invaders, and he was going to do it now.

From then on, it was a game of cat and mouse. He used his knowledge of the manor to his advantage, listening for frustrated grumbles—after all, the men still figured they were hunting down a scared woman whom they believed to be defenseless. They had no idea that the man of the house was now home… and mortally angry.

They were easy to pick off one by one. All he had to do was figure out what room they were in and wait till they emerged, and then take them out before they had a chance to draw his weapon.

Then, quite by accident, he stumbled upon Malachi—or Angelo, as was probably his true name. The man was hiding in one of the alcoves in a hallway, and Bruce grimly dragged him out. Blonde hair, a fine-featured face… he struggled weakly, but Bruce just held him still and reached out to yank his upper lip up. Yes… he'd gotten the fang replaced, probably somewhere other than Batwings. This was his man.

Bruce let him go and laid a strong right hook on him. He then indulged in some good, old-fashioned, fueled-by-fury whaling. This man had stalked Jenn… led Bruce on a frustrating hunt… killed four other girls and planned on making Jenn his fifth. He was going to make sure that Malachi wasn't going anywhere but prison when this was all over.

After the vampire aspirant had gone limp, Bruce let him fall to the ground. He couldn't help but feel satisfied; he'd wanted to do that ever since he'd heard the stalker's raspy voice over the phone.

He still had people to take out, though, and so he continued his hunt. The results were rewarding. No one was expecting him, and they _definitely_ weren't expecting him to know how to render them useless with a few good hits.

The minutes ticked by, and the count of unconscious henchmen grew. Bruce had searched all of the floors, now, and just had returned to the main foyer when he caught sight of the last man he needed to take care of.

"Hold it," said Christopher, and thumbed back the hammer on his gun.

Whatever he was planning to do, though, whether it was shoot, threaten, or just start posturing, he didn't get the chance. Jenn leapt onto his back with a cry of fury.

The disoriented Christopher squeezed the trigger, but his aim had been thrown off. The bullet lodged harmlessly into some plaster as he tried to sling her off, and Bruce vaulted across the foyer before the man got it into his head to try to shoot her.

He collided hard with him and all three went down. Jenn rolled away from the tangle, gasping for breath, as she'd been on the bottom of the pile and had the wind knocked out of her at least. Bruce struggled to get the upper hand, and, though Christopher put up a fight, eventually ended up on top, beating him into submission. Finally, Christopher subsided, going slack.

Bruce noted that sometime during the night, his knuckles had split open, the result of hitting people without wearing gloves. He stared at his bleeding hands for a minute, and then turned his head slowly to look at Jenn.

She was lying on her back on the marble floor, staring up at the ceiling as she worked to regulate her breathing. Breathing heavily, Bruce said, "I told you to stay put."

There was a pause while she got her diaphragm sorted out. "I figured you might need me," she said eventually. "The men had guns. And I just saved your life." She turned her head to look at him. "A little gratitude wouldn't hurt."

He paused for a long moment, and then said, "Thank you." After a few more seconds, he got to his feet and reached down for her. She took his hands, and as he pulled her up, he said, "The police should be here soon."

"I'm worried about Alfred," she murmured.

"He said he'd be out late tonight," Bruce said. "He'll show up in a few minutes and wonder why there's blood on the floor."

The mention of blood made her stare at her hands again, which hadn't been cleaned. He was just starting to worry that she might be relapsing into shock when she looked up sharply. "Malachi." She pulled away and was halfway across the foyer before he caught her.

"He's been taken care of," he told her. She double-took, and then raised an eyebrow at him.

"Taken care of?" she repeated, obviously curious. Bruce shrugged, not quite divulging what he'd done. He had a convenient excuse to step away when the screen next to the front door, one of a few throughout the house that activated when someone was at the gate, lit up.

There was a police car there. Bruce pressed the button that would allow him to talk to the driver. "Officer, you'd better get up here. And you might want to call backup." He keyed in the code to open the gate, and the cruiser pulled up the long drive.

* * *

Alfred returned home to the flashing lights of several police cruisers and one ambulance, and he immediately began to worry. Jenn was home alone, with Bruce and him gone… parking in the drive, he attempted to enter, but was blocked by an officer. "I'm sorry, sir, you can't go in there…"

"I _live_ here," Alfred informed him, his concern making him cross and impatient. "Now, I suggest you get out of my way so I can see what's going on here."

Over the man's shoulder, he spotted Madam Jenn, sitting on the stairs. The second she saw him, she got up. "Officer, let him in," she called, crossing the foyer. The man got out of his way, and Alfred didn't look at him again, striding inside to meet Jenn halfway. She wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug.

Startled, he returned the embrace until she pulled away. Then, he looked down at her, concerned. "Madam, what happened?" he asked, brow wrinkled in anxiety.

"You just missed it," she said, giving him a wry smile. "My stalker combined with a bunch of men looking for Bruce converged on us."

"What happened?" he repeated, keeping his composure admirably well.

"Well… I played hide and seek with them for a while, then Bruce showed up and put them out of commission," she said quietly, mindful of listening ears. "The story we're feeding to the cops is an edited version—Bruce was here the whole time and made use of his martial arts classes to take them down. It's the most believable thing we could come up with—after all, they don't know the house. They got separated."

"Are you all right?" Alfred asked, visually checking her for injury. She sighed, glancing around at the police, coming and going.

"I've been better," she admitted. "I'm kind of messed up right now—but I'm not hurt, at least. I'm glad you weren't here—it sounded like they were planning to kill everyone not immediately useful to them."

"I wish I had been," he said adamantly. "You shouldn't have had to fend them off on your own."

She gave him a thin smile. "I managed."

Bruce arrived then, looking solemn. He nodded at Alfred. "They're going to take them into custody; charge them with breaking and entering at least. They think they'll be able to get them for more, though—it all depends."

"What about Malachi?" Jenn asked quietly.

"We didn't really discuss him," Bruce said, "but I think Gordon will probably receive some information later… from an outside source. He'll be taken care of."

Jenn nodded, satisfied. At that point, a police officer approached the three, flashing his bade. "Mr. and Mrs. Wayne, my name is Bill Procter—I just want to ask you a few questions, okay?"

Bruce studied the man carefully. He held his broad shoulders high, had his blonde hair crew-cut, and exuded a general air of arrogance. Bruce could already tell he wasn't going to like this guy, but hiding his first impression, he said, "Sure. Go ahead."

"Were you both at home when your house was broken into?" Procter questioned, producing a notepad and pen and waiting for the reply.

"Yes," they answered in unison.

"About what time were you aware that a break-in was occurring?"

"I looked at the clock," Jenn answered. "It was 12:03."

"What happened?"

"We heard Malachi on the intercom—"

"Malachi?" asked Procter, lifting an eyebrow. "You knew one of them previously."

"That's a long story," Bruce cut in, "but my wife _had_ spoken to him a few times before. He wasn't with the rest of them—he got here first."

Procter looked at them for a second longer, and then shrugged. "All right. What about the intercom?"

"He was using the intercom to talk to us—to _me,_ more accurately," Jenn said. "He was… taunting me. So we got up and went to find him."

"You didn't try to call the police?"

"Not immediately," Bruce said. "We were more concerned with finding out where he was and throwing him out."

"We split up," Jenn put in.

"You split up?" Procter repeated disbelievingly. "You weren't a little scared?"

Jenn smiled slightly at him. "Officer, neither of us has any tolerance for criminals, and we both know how to take care of ourselves. We weren't afraid."

"Okay. Then what?"

"I found Malachi in the foyer, and that was when the men broke in. One asked me if Bruce was home, and I lied, told him no. He ordered one of his men to shoot Malachi and I didn't wait around—I took off, and they followed."

Procter stared at her for a moment, and then said, "Mr. and Mrs. Wayne, we found one of the men with a stab wound in the stomach. He's lost a lot of blood and might die. Do you know anything about that?"

Jenn was quiet for a moment, and then said, "I stabbed him."

"You stabbed him," Procter repeated slowly. He stared at her, and she looked back unblinkingly.

"Well, yes. I was the one with blood all over my hands when you got here, wasn't I?" she asked, a little bitingly. He blinked. "I'd gotten a knife from the kitchen earlier, and when the guy jumped at me, I stabbed him."

"It was self-defense," Bruce said, getting a little ticked off with the way Procter was staring at her, like she was a criminal.

"Hmm," Procter said, and wrote something down on the notepad. "What happened then?"

"Bruce found me. He told me to hide while he took care of the rest of them—and he did. That's pretty much it."

"You took out six men? On your own?"

"They were separated, and I've been into martial arts since I was a kid," Bruce said simply. Procter lifted an eyebrow.

"What kind?"

"Is that relevant?" Bruce asked testily.

Procter shrugged, and opened his mouth, but was interrupted by a new arrival. "Procter!" Gordon belted across the room. "Leave those people alone!" The officer slunk off as Gordon arrived, and the newcomer shook his head. "He can't resist getting into _everything_ , even if it isn't his job," he grumbled.

"Jim," Bruce greeted him with a nod. Gordon looked at him for a few seconds before responding.

"Here we are again, huh?" he asked. "I got here as soon as I could; we just ran into a big crime scene across town… huge step in solving a serial killer case. What happened here?"

"Just your standard attack," Jenn sighed.

"The guys after you again?" Gordon asked, looking around. Jenn shrugged.

"I don't know what they wanted," she said.

Gordon nodded, and looked from one to the other. "All right," he said finally. "Don't worry. We'll get this thing taken care of."

* * *

"Well, I'll be damned." Morning had dawned, and Gordon had arrived to his office to find a thick shipping envelope on his desk. Inside was a step-by-step layout of Batman's investigation into the serial killer, including crime scene photographs with untidy scrawls of observation in the margin and a DNA sample swabbed from a fang missed by CSI. Apparently, they were dealing with a vampire.

Gordon was twice as pleased to discover that they had the man in custody already—this fellow that Jenn had called Malachi, real name Angelo Stratford. It looked like Batman had come through and given them everything they needed.

This was certainly starting the day off right. He grabbed his coffee mug and headed out to refill it, anticipating a lot of work ahead. He stopped, though, when he saw Christopher Thornton, out of his cell, not handcuffed, escorted only by Bill Proctor. Gordon scowled immediately in suspicion. "What's he doing out?" he demanded, moving to block the exit.

Before he could blink, Thornton had yanked Procter's gun from the holster. "Everybody shut up and get down!" he screamed.

Unfortunately, he'd forgotten that he was in a room full of cops. There was stillness for a moment, and then a shot rang out, and Thornton fell to the ground, his spare hand clutching the back of his knee, where the bullet had lodged. He didn't give up, though. He didn't aim, just fired off two rounds.

One hit the wall, the other clipped Gordon's knee. He stumbled, unable to keep his balance after the impact, and fell as more shots rang out. His coffee mug shattered—he wasn't sure if it was because it had fallen to the floor or because it had been shot.

As much as he wanted to lie there and cover his head, the stronger, braver side of him that had made him into a cop forced him up, and he ducked behind a desk and drew his gun. He looked to see where they stood, and through the gun smoke he saw two other officers down—but in the center of them Thornton lay face-down, a gaping hole in the back of his head, blood seeping down the sides of his dark head.

Gordon's breath came heavily as he stared, and after a second he holstered his gun and stood, using the desk to support himself. He could easily pick out who'd fired the killing shot—Officer Hale stood behind Thornton's body, looking grim, his gun still giving off fumes.

"Call an ambulance," Gordon said, wincing as his leg gave a throb of pain. As two or three officers rushed to obey, he stared at the scene and pieced together what had happened.

Procter was on a payroll—he'd suspected the man for a while, now he was sure of it. He was trying to help Thornton out of there, and might have succeeded had Gordon not been in the building and called attention to him. Thornton panicked, thought he could take on the Gotham PD. He'd shot Gordon, and gotten shot a few times in return. Procter had been hit by a bullet from Thornton's gun. Gordon figured it was poetic justice.

* * *

News traveled fast in the underworld of Gotham. Within an hour, Henry had news of his brother's death.

Distraught was not a proper word to describe his reaction.

Already mentally unstable, this occurrence seemed to push him over the edge. For an hour he railed against Gotham's police, vowing to get revenge on each and every one of them, to kill their children; rape their wives. In another hour, though, the ranting turned to despair.

No one was with him while he broke down and sobbed. His attachment to his brother went deeper than anyone could imagine; the knowledge that he'd have to go on, to conquer Gotham without him, was just inconceivable.

On his knees, face tearstained, he reached up into his desk and brought out a pistol. He pulled out the magazine—it was empty. Clicking it back in, he stared at the gun for a minute. What would it feel like, to point the gun at his head, to be subject to blissful oblivion the second the bullet drove into his brain?

A look of curiosity surfaced in his eyes. Slowly, he put the gun to his head, feeling the barrel press against his temple. Curiously, he pulled the trigger.

He wasn't alive long enough to rue the fact that he'd forgotten the bullet still in the chamber. Christopher would have remembered; Christopher always remembered things like that.

Henry's body flopped backwards, and a pool of blood grew rapidly underneath him. His underlings found him like that three hours later.

* * *

"It's a mess," Gordon murmured to his rooftop guest. "This whole thing's just a mess. Christopher Thornton gets shot, then a few hours later Henry McDermott is found dead—they figure it was suicide. We looked into both their backgrounds—turns out they're brothers."

"You think Henry was behind all this?" graveled Batman.

Gordon shrugged. "I don't know. Who knows? There's a chance, though. Now that he's dead, people are coming forward, making claims that he was behind a lot of the stuff that's been going on. You know how crime lords are, though; nobody knows who's who. The orders get passed down. My guess is that Thornton was his right-hand-man. His death probably cracked McDermott. But that's just a guess. This'll take a while to figure out."

His visitor nodded, and Gordon looked carefully at him. "Thanks for the information on our serial killer, by the way. We have pretty much everything we need to put him away for life, maybe get him executed."

"Just doing my job," Batman said, and went to the roof's edge, presumably to drop off and disappear again. Gordon checked around to make sure no one else was there, and figured now was as good a time as ever.

"Be careful, Bruce."

Batman turned back to look at him. The cowl hid most of his face, but Gordon was willing to bet that beneath it, his expression would be stunned. Gordon shrugged, putting his hands in the pockets of his trench coat. "I'm not stupid. After a while, people tend to figure a few things out."

After a second, Batman nodded, not attempting to deny it. He didn't seem particularly worried. "It's a heavy burden to bear," he informed Gordon quietly.

The lieutenant considered this, and shrugged. "I've known for a while. Thought about it. Think I can handle the pressure."

Batman nodded, and without another word, flung himself over the edge. Gordon waited a few minutes, thinking, before he shut off the light and went downstairs.

**Epilogue**

**June**

Jenn paused on her way across the church entrance hall, glancing out the wide windows with a slight scoff. "Leave it to Lauren to coax sunshine out of a rain-drenched week," she said to herself. "And it was _snowing_ when _I_ got married. Figures…"

She shrugged it off and continued, clip-clopping across the hall towards the bride's dressing room, holding her skirt out of the way of her feet. She entered the room to relative calm and made her way to stand beside Lauren, who was sitting at the vanity, tending to a last-minute makeup crisis.

"Did I ever thank you for not making the bridesmaids' dresses ugly?" questioned Jenn without preamble, plopping the ribbon she'd been sent to find on the vanity and moving behind her friend to touch up her hair.

"My dear, only brides who are worried about their bridesmaids outstripping them in beauty make the dresses ugly," said Lauren, feigning a sense of haughtiness. "Or those with no fashion sense."

"Oh, so you're prettier than us?" Jenn asked humorously, rearranging a few hairpins.

"Nobody said _that,_ but I do know that I only want one man's eyes, and I also know that I'll have them."

"Lauren, if you felt that way about Bruce, you should have said so before I married him. It's too late now, I'm afraid; I'm not much for sharing…"

"Shut up," said Lauren with a grin. "You know _precisely_ who I meant."

Much to Jenn's everlasting gratitude, the bridesmaid dresses _were_ pretty—also simple and fairly easy to manage, which was a blessing when one had to spend hours running around the church for dozens of little, last-minute things. They were champagne-colored satin, more tan than yellow, complimenting Lauren's gown. As the matron of honor, Jenn's was cut a little differently than the others—personally, she liked it better.

"So, are you nervous?" asked another bridesmaid, Sarah.

"What? Of course I am!" Lauren exclaimed. "I'd be bloody _weird_ if I wasn't."

"As opposed to now?" Jenn teased, exchanging a smile with Sarah. Lauren paused mid-retort, and then shrugged.

"You have a point there, I must admit. Never fear. I'll get back at you for that. Oh, did I tell you that there were some paparazzi lurking in the bushes?"

Jenn's eyes widened. "What? Where?"

"Outside. I imagine they figured they'd catch some interesting shots of you and dear Bruce… also the friends the pair of you found worthy enough to fly halfway across the world to. Or something like that. Don't worry; I sent Max and Teddy after them. They fixed them, all right."

"Oh, no," Jenn said. "What did they do?"

"Well, last I heard, they were pelting them with rice. Mum said something about a squirt-gun, but that's just hearsay. Your husband may have gotten involved in the threatening when the scum got mad at the young'uns, but rest assured that the kids drove them off."

"Good," Jenn sighed. "It would kind of suck if they crashed this wedding because of me."

Holly ran in at that moment, vaulting across the room and landing on Lauren's lap. Ashley, the last bridesmaid and Josh's sister, made a small noise of alarm. "Careful, Holly—your sister's dress!"

"It's okay," Lauren said immediately, wrapping her arms around her small sister and hugging her to her. Jenn noticed that Holly's face was streaming with silent tears, and stepped forward, eyebrows furrowed.

"What's wrong?" she murmured. Lauren shook her head and signed the question to Holly, who began rapidly signing back. Jenn had become proficient at sign-language during her stint in England and followed without much trouble:

_You won't be at home anymore._

"Oh, Holly," Lauren murmured tenderly, hugging her sister again before signing back: _Yes, I will._

_You won't live at home._

_I didn't live there during college and you were fine. I still visited._

_I was little then._

_You're still little,_ Lauren signed, before gently tweaking her sister's bright red nose and mouthing, "Munchkin." _I'll visit you. So will Josh. We're only about ten minutes away, yeah? We'll pop over so much you won't be able to get rid of us!_

Holly looked only slightly reassured, but threw her arms around her sister's waist anyway, squeezing her tightly. "Good," Lauren murmured, kissing her downy head.

Hannah Malton bustled in a second later. "Oh, Jenn dear, you found the ribbon, good… Ashley, be a darling and take care of that? Thank you. All right, girls, we have five minutes! Any last-minute crying or hyperventilating, do it now!" she exclaimed, signing something to Holly and gently prying her off of her sister, sending her out.

"I think we've got it, Mum," said Lauren humorously, standing up and straightening her dress. Her gown was simple, too—a bit frilly around the skirt, but with a low waist that accented her slimness. Her childhood nickname of 'Pixie' was becoming relevant here; she'd never looked more fairy-like. On others, it might not have worked. Lauren pulled it off admirably well.

"Well, you're on your way to making the biggest commitment of your life," Jenn said with a slight smirk. "How does that make you feel?"

"Oh, you're having a lovely time, aren't you? Here's some news for you, missy," Lauren said, poking her friend in the shoulder. "The fact that you've already been through this ordeal doesn't give you license to make fun of the rest of us. You're absolutely horrid."

Jenn chuckled as Ashley handed her the veil, and fit it to her friend's head, gesturing for some hairpins to anchor it in place. "Hey, there's still time to elope," she suggested.

"If only," said Lauren, her eyes glazing over wistfully.

"Now, don't you go giving her ideas!" Hannah chastised, rapping Jenn gently on the head. "She'll take them seriously, you know."

Jenn and Lauren grinned at each other. "I know."

"So, old ladies," said Lauren, addressing her mother and her friend, "any last words of advice for me?"

"Don't forget to breathe," Hannah said. "And if you freeze up at your vows, mumble something incoherent as many times as it takes to get over it." Sometimes, it was incredibly easy to see where Lauren got her personality.

"Avoid nervousness by thinking about the man waiting for you and the knowledge that, after this, he'll be _all yours,_ " Jenn advised, passing Lauren the bouquet. Lauren started to grin at that.

Nate, Lauren's father, knocked on the doorframe lightly at that point. The girls all looked at him, and Hannah quickly started shooing them out. "Out, out! Let Lauren talk with her father for a minute, girls."

Jenn kissed Nate on the cheek as she passed, and then grouped with the other girls to get their bouquets and wait. The atmosphere was jittery but excited, and she laughed and whispered with them while they waited.

Finally, they were ready. The flower girl, one of Lauren's numerous cousins, stood cherubic and adorable at the doors, heading the procession. Lauren was laughing at something her father had said, and Jenn double-checked to make sure everything was right.

Then, the doors opened.

* * *

The reception hall was crowded, but there was a sense of goodwill about it. The Maltons knew a _lot_ of people, but instead of adding to the cost of the wedding, as Jenn had explained earlier to Bruce, it cut it down. The wedding was what the Maltons called a 'family affair,' with everyone pitching in to pull it off. Hannah was the planner. One of her sisters was an accomplished dressmaker, and had worked with her daughter to make the gowns. A close friend was a fanatical gardener and provided the flowers. Most of the women and some of the men had pitched in with the food.

Bruce wasn't particularly concerned with the details, though, as he moved effortlessly through the crowd in search of his missing-in-action wife. Being taller than most of the people there helped, and before long he spotted her, talking animatedly with two older women. He waited in the background, a slight smile pulling at his mouth as he watched her.

The first month after the dangerous events in Gotham had taken place had been difficult. It had really made him realize just how hazardous it was for people who were close to him, and just how close Jenn had come to getting hurt or killed. With this in mind, he started to steadily push her away, hoping maybe she'd come to her senses and get out of the situation.

She put up with it for about two, maybe three weeks. Then, she tracked him down and informed him quite coolly that _he_ had been the one to insist that they could make it work last November, that she'd already made her decision, and that he'd better snap out of the funk soon, because she wasn't going anywhere. That had made him smile, albeit unwillingly, for the first time in days.

They worked out some ground rules, and Bruce started taking action to protect the manor a little better. By June, it was a veritable fortress, with the grounds fenced in by eight-foot walls, an advanced security system, and camera surveillance of pretty much every area. He felt better now, but was never entirely relaxed, knowing that she and Alfred were never truly safe. He welcomed this lack of restfulness—it kept him always on his guard.

Jim Gordon made things easier. Shortly into April, he'd been promoted to commissioner to replace Loeb—recommended by Bruce Wayne (whose money was influential, even if people didn't put much stock in his opinion), who was backed by several colleagues—and he used the position for good. Bruce was relieved, though not necessarily surprised, to see that he was exactly the same in a position of power as he was out of it.

Now that things had been sorted out, things were easier. They never argued as severely as they had in the February-March period—though he doubted that would last forever—and there was a general sense of comfort now.

She was finished talking now; the women were turning away. He moved behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her cheek. "You're absolutely beautiful."

She swiveled in his grip, beaming up at him. She'd been in an infectiously good mood all day, and he found himself grinning back at her. "Look who's talking. Have I ever told you that you look _very_ handsome in a suit?"

"Frequently."

"Well, that's only because it's true. How'd you fare during the wedding? I was busy trying to keep the ringbearer from setting himself on fire—did you see that? He wouldn't leave those candles alone!"

He chuckled. "I saw, and I did very well on my own. Fortunately, most of these people aren't nearly as crazy as Lauren."

"I heard that!" The bride herself came their way, petite and glowing, holding on to her new husband. Jenn grinned at her, and the Englishwoman surveyed the two of them for a moment. "All right, you two, _separate_. You're stealing my thunder and I don't want the kids to be scarred for life at your inappropriate behavior."

Jenn snorted even as Bruce let go of her to shake Josh's hand. "Yeah, right. Lauren, for your information, that kiss Josh laid on you at the altar wasn't exactly rated G."

"I had nothing to do with that," Lauren said innocently, pulling her friend close and giving her a tight hug. "I'm glad you were here today, though. I'd have had to hunt you down with a shotgun if you'd dared to make some sort of excuse."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Jenn said. "I had a bet going that you'd set your hair on fire and I needed to be here to see."

Lauren gave a slight huff, pulling away, and then said, "Harry almost set _himself_ on fire—did you _see_ him? _I_ saw him, and I was staring adoringly into Josh's eyes the whole time! How obvious was it?"

"Pretty obvious," Bruce spoke up. "The kid's a pyro in the making."

"Well, it's only natural—Josh is his cousin." Lauren pulled Bruce down to her level and gave him a noisy kiss on the cheek. "Thanks for coming."

"Hey, I was happy to," he said, straightening up as she let him go. "I had a bet going with Jenn." He looked smug. "I won."

Lauren laughed. "You two are _cruel_ to me, you know that? I made it through the wedding very well, thanks, and for your information, I never _mean_ to set myself on fire!"

"Yet somehow, it happens," Jenn said devilishly. "And now you're married to Josh, the town's official pyro… I see a problem in your future."

"All right, stop making bad predictions _right now!_ I intend to make this marriage last for a _long_ time, without any flaming deaths in the midst of it, so you'd better not jinx it."

"Ah, she can't jinx it," Josh remarked. "It's star-crossed already, with the whole fire thing. Plus the fact that we fight about every two minutes."

"Optimistic," Bruce commented.

Lauren giggled. "He forgot to add that we make up about a minute later." She glanced over her shoulder. "All right, got to run, people to see, places to go! Jenn-girl, don't you _dare_ let me go off on the honeymoon without talking to you first. Cheerio!" And she and Josh were off again.

Bruce and Jenn were silent for a minute. After a second, he said, "She's really—"

"I know," said Jenn with a grin. "I wouldn't trade Lauren for the world. Maybe I'd swap her for _you_ , but I don't feel guilty about that, since she'd give me up in a second for Josh." She glanced at him, a mischievous look in her eyes. "Want to go 'decorate' their getaway car?"

* * *

Jenn inhaled deeply, and then said, "You know something? I love leaving home just so I can come back to it."

Bruce gave a short bark of laughter. "Try leaving for seven years. This house was the most welcome sight in the world to me after that."

Jenn imagined, and then shook her head. "I bet." Alfred had come in by now, and even through his pleased smile he asked if he could help them with their bags. She forewent the answer, instead moving to hug him tightly. "I missed you!" she said to him.

"You're about to blow away," he said, hugging her back. "Come to the kitchen; I've got a bit of supper ready for the two of you."

"I should really start catching up on what's been going on while I was gone," Bruce said absently as Jenn let the butler go. Alfred fixed him with the stern eye he'd used on him as a child.

"Master Bruce, you may believe yourself to be Superman, but the fact remains that you are mortal and you must _eat,_ like other mortals. Don't try telling me you ate on the airplane, either."

"He didn't," Jenn chimed in. "He wouldn't touch the stuff." Bruce glared at her.

"Tattletale," he mouthed. She tilted her head and grinned at him.

The screen overlooking the gate lit up suddenly, and a beep alerted them to the fact that someone was at the gate. Bruce glanced at Jenn and Alfred and then stepped towards it, looking to see who it was. "It's Jim Gordon," he announced, a bit of puzzlement in his tone. Jenn and Alfred exchanged a glance as Bruce keyed in the gate intercom and said, "Come on up, Jim," opening the gate.

"Were you expecting him?" Jenn asked quizzically. Bruce shook his head with a frown.

"No… if it was police business he'd wait till he saw Batman to talk to me. I don't think we've talked since the last legal proceeding for the break-in."

"I'll go put the finishing touches on supper," Alfred said wisely, and left the room.

Jenn and Bruce waited for Gordon to reach the end of the drive, and then went out on the front veranda, looking out over the lit-up drive. Jim got out of the car, and headed towards them.

Bruce's eyes narrowed suddenly. "Someone else is in the car," he murmured to Jenn. She raised her eyebrows and looked—now that she was looking carefully, she could see the shadowy shape of someone hunched in the passenger side.

"Bruce, Jenn," Jim said, coming up the stairs. "I'm sorry to come so late—I know the two of you just got back, but this is a matter of some importance."

"Jim," Bruce greeted him, shaking his hand. "Don't worry about it. What's going on?"

Jim looked back at the car, and Jenn became more and more certain that whatever was occurring had something to do with the person inside. He looked back at them and sighed. "It's all a big mess. The kid in the car—his parents were murdered, just like that… he doesn't have any family; he's been at the police station for more than thirty-six hours. I couldn't stand seeing him like that and thought of you folks. I figured you could give him a place to stay while we're sorting this mess out."

"Well—" Jenn said, repressing the instinct to immediately say _Of course, we'll take care of him._ Instead, she glanced at Bruce, waiting for his verdict.

Bruce's eyes were fixed on Gordon, but as she watched, they drifted over his shoulder to the car. Jenn wondered if he was thinking of his own ordeal more than twenty years ago—of course he was. He rarely _wasn't_ thinking about it on some level. After a second, he barely nodded. "Yeah. Don't worry about it; we'll take care of him."

Jim looked relieved, and turned back to the car, gesturing. After a second, a blonde boy in his early to mid teens got out of the passenger side and shut the door, walking up to them with his hands jammed in his pockets. His shoulders were slumped, and as he drew closer, Jenn could see that his expression was devoid of much feeling. He came to Gordon's side, and Jim put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Bruce, Jenn… this is Richard Grayson."

_**Finis** _


End file.
